


Law 18

by Siera_Writes



Category: Blur
Genre: Angst, Damon is forward both on the pitch and off it, M/M, Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension, everybody's bi, footballer AU, internalised biphobia/homophobia, period specific homophobia/biphobia, they just are, unabashed cherry-picking of 90s cultural phenomena
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-11-03 06:11:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 36,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10961331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siera_Writes/pseuds/Siera_Writes
Summary: He's sure Dave and Alex'll be drinking somewhere right now, probably gossiping in that inimitable way of theirs; Dave'll be discussing his actual proper law degree he's working towards, fingers drumming on the table in unfaltering accordance with the beat of whatever's playing wherever they are, and Alex'll be feigning expert knowledge of astronomy as his eyes flit from one woman to another. He can imagine it with such high fidelity at this point; it's their every trip to a pub, or a club, now. Graham just usually hangs back or prepares for light teasing from Dave and some choice comments from Alex about Graham's latest crush, someone he doesn't actually know, and is kind of happy keeping it that way.





	1. Law 1: The Field of Play

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to write something multi-chaptered for a while now, but something in character (sorta) whilst being an AU. So a football (soccer) AU it is. It helps there are some fantastic photos of Damon playing football. So for this one, it's an AU in which everything's the same except Graham never met Damon as a child. Damon's much the same as ever, though.
> 
> I should warn you, I know very little about football, though I will be researching stuff for that extra sense of realism. Thus, Law 18 refers to the final, unofficial rule of association football, in which referees should use common sense. A little glib, but I had no idea what to call this... Probs gonna title each chapter accordingly...
> 
> Anyways if you see anything glaringly stupid here, or just want to chat with me, come message me on tumblr! My URL's eviljaffafish. Come chat with me!
> 
> All that aside, this is unbetaed, and the rating is subject to the plot's whims. Hope it piques your interest.

The walk from the dorms is a brief, chilly affair. Graham's got his guitar slung across his back in its case, and his right hand clutches the woven nylon strip fitfully, eyes skipping from left to right and scouring the greyscale street for figures moving alongside him: anything suspicious. Graham trots to the kerb, glances in either direction, and jogs across the road. The new surface looks slick in the sodium light of street-lights, the yellow lending a cosiness to edges which doesn't belong.

Parked cars dot the length of the road, but for the most part it's clear - being a student area, most residents rely on bikes. He tilts his head back in a moment of innocence - tries to see the stars - but he can't through the orange haze overhead, except for a few of the brightest. Sirius, Alpha Centauri... A smile hovers at the corner of his lips. Alex would be pleased his impromptu lessons have started sinking in.

He's sure Dave and Alex'll be drinking somewhere right now, probably gossiping in that inimitable way of theirs; Dave'll be discussing his actual proper law degree he's working towards, fingers drumming on the table in unfaltering accordance with the beat of whatever's playing wherever they are, and Alex'll be feigning expert knowledge of astronomy as his eyes flit from one woman to another. He can imagine it with such high fidelity at this point; it's their every trip to a pub, or a club, now. Graham just usually hangs back or prepares for light teasing from Dave and some choice comments from Alex about Graham's latest crush, someone he doesn't actually know, and is kind of happy keeping it that way. From what Graham's heard, he's kind of an asshole. Good looking, though.

A fine drizzle begins, haloing around the street-lamps. Graham shivers at the noticeable drop in temperature, his hands feeling unresponsive and tight, so he starts rubbing them together, knowing it won't make too much of a difference, but he's almost arrived at the pub, so it's okay. He steps through the door into the welcome embrace of warmth and noise and bustle, conversation swelling around him. He steps across the threshold and towards the little raised stage area in the corner, plonking himself down on the stool, pulling his guitar from his back, unzipping the case and pulling the acoustic from the case with a little reverence, as always. The microphone setup isn't ideal - both his strumming and his singing have to be picked up by one single mic, which involves a bit of contortion on his behalf, and results in him messing up some notes, but also gives him a bit of that ingenue look that people seem to like.

At this point he knows not to wear his glasses, makes his eyes big and baleful in a way he doesn't really personally feel makes him look any better-looking, or alluring, but both Alex and Dave have assured him does. Followed by a bit of throat-clearing and a crooked smile from Dave, and qualification and hands held open and facing outwards from Alex. Really, one of these days he's gonna work it out. Graham shakes his head. Alex is a fucking idiot.

He gets to tuning his guitar, wincing at the occasional burst of feedback - from what, he's not entirely sure. There's one mic and a single, small amplifier sat dejectedly beside his stool. Graham flicks out his foot to nudge it away a little, grimacing as it skids further than he intended over the smooth wood of the stage, close to the edge. It wouldn't do to break any of the equipment or it'll be out of his cheque.

The set goes well. His fingers are a little sore after not having played much the last week, busy with trying to collate a decent amount of work for his midyear grading (read: painting multiple pieces in a week and backdating them, plus nuanced write-ups for each). It's a relief to have it over, to have the opportunity to start working again so he can continue his tradition of going out and getting smashed with Dave and Alex as often as possible.

His playing is smooth for not having practised, and as he relaxes into the playing, he starts taking the room in properly. From his little vantage he can see the bar, the multiple tables lined against the wall, the area further down the narrow hallway just past the long mahogany bar where people are dancing spasmodically. The whole place has a low-hunkering feel, ceilings low and decor earthy and rustic, even in the middle of the city centre as it is. Light fixtures let just enough light out for the place to be clear and easily navigable, but not enough to sober people up; not enough to make them take a look at themselves and maybe decline that next drink.

Graham keeps playing, falling into a smooth croon he's been told idly isn't actually too bad - that maybe, if he wanted to, he could maybe record, with his guitar at the fore and his voice a second-thought. Which, though a back-handed compliment, isn't something he minds too much. He's never prided himself on his voice but he knows his guitar is pretty great. Not being pretentious, but honest with himself. He's worked at it for years, spent hours honing it.

He's almost through - a half-hour set isn't ideal for him, but he earns enough with this each weeknight, and with his grant he can live comfortably enough. He takes a chance to look up, notes the television in the corner, and fuck. He's messed up. Cause he's there, it's a sport round-up or some shit and there is Damon Albarn, charging across the pitch to the goal and firing in a particularly good shot with his left foot, before promptly reeling around and pulling his shirt up over his head like an absolute prick. The buzz of his strings as he misses the fret sums it up pretty well.

It's the last song, anyway, so Graham slows to a close with particularly melancholy chords, biting his lips against the flush on his cheeks, more for his slip-up than seeing the stupid Chelsea upstart in a state of undress, or at all. He weathers the dark look fired his way from the manager behind the bar. He packs up, hops off the stool, and goes to collect his money, trying not to seem knowing of his mistake, and he receives a little envelope of cash. He thanks the guy and strides out, reaching up to touch his cheeks, wondering if they're as red as they feel they should be. He can blame it on the cold when he's outside.


	2. Law 2: The Ball

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This came together a bit sporadically, but ideas are coming together quite nicely on how it's all going to work out so far. Quite happy. This was finished off in the aftermath of a Physics exam which went rather well for me, so if it's a little more upbeat than my usual fare, you'll probably see why.
> 
> Angst, though, will definitely feature at some point. Going for the old slow-burn too.
> 
> Unbetaed. Hope you enjoy!

Graham's woken by quiet footsteps; they're muted, like the person's used to a subtle tread, but loud enough that it's evident they're not going out of their way to be quiet. There's a harsh scraping as his curtains are swept aside, bathing the room in crisp morning light. He inhales laboriously, tilting back into his pillow, grimacing at the pervasiveness of the illumination. Cigarette smoke catches in his nostrils. Alex is here. Why's Alex here?

"Good morning, sleepyhead, rise and shine." Sing-song and faux-chipper. Graham muffles his curses in the crook of his arm, flopping over onto his other side, and pulling the quilt up around his face to try to afford himself more peace, darkness, warmth.

"What do you want?" It's plaintive, slurred by his skin, but intelligible enough for Alex to know exactly what he asked. The quilt's promptly pulled from his form, cool air rushing over his body, and Graham's relieved he left on his boxers, and a ratty tee whose graphic is cracked and almost fully faded. He glares sideways through squinted eyes, face pushing further into his elbow and legs pulling up to his chest.

"We've got a big morning ahead of us. Dave booked a studio." Graham perks up at that, pushing himself up to be half seated, legs still curled. The frustration brewing at Alex's deliberately oblique behaviour evaporates immediately. Alex slouches against the wall next to Graham's headboard, cigarette trailing smoke behind each and every movement of his arm, like an after-image.

"A proper studio, with instruments and everything?" He fields it cautiously, watches Alex smile gently, clashing slightly with the eagerness of his nod. Alex is full of those moments: full of small expressions betraying something he thinks is hidden. Graham tilts his head at it, but can't suppress how much he's beaming. He feels light, and practically springs from his bed, unabashed in his eagerness to change, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Alex takes leave of his own accord, moving from the small manilla-walled bedroom to the little equally bland adjoining kitchenette-come-living-room of his flat. He busies himself pulling on fresh clothes, before lobbing his make-do pyjamas into the collapsible laundry basket crammed into the gap between his drawers and his bedside table. Both are cheap things, flimsy and on their last legs, but he's saving up for a proper electric guitar of his own, alongside the studio visit idea, so he doesn't have funds going spare. He bounds over to the small, square mirror squatting on the drawers, brushes his hair into some semblance of order with abortive jabs of his fingers, before sighing at its obstinance, and reaching for his glasses.

As he approaches the doorway, concentration drifting from visions of his hands darting across strings in inspired lunges -the richness and variety of the sounds he can make - he notices that there are two voices, one possessing the lilting cadence typical of Alex, and the other Dave's more modulated tones. There's a bit of clattering going on, and as Graham rounds the corner, nudging his fringe from his forehead, he's greeted by two equally wide smiles. Dave's set out three of Graham's mugs on the peeling counter, electric kettle beginning its roar to boiling. "Tea?" Graham nods in assent. He feels content as he seats himself in one of the mismatching wooden chairs they usually leave pulled up to the sofa Alex is currently stretched out upon, a small coffee table serving as their dining table.

He doesn't know why his flat specifically became their hub, but he isn't complaining when it means he only has to stumble twenty feet to his bed after a particularly heavy drinking session, when both Dave and Alex either have to make a deal on who sleeps on the collapsing sofa or the floor, or make their way perilously back to their own abodes.

Graham grins down at Alex. The brunette looks rather like a damsel, head tilted back pitifully on the arm, forearm resting across his eyes. He's still smoking, looking to be onto a fresh cigarette, and Graham clicks his tongue at the fact it'll take about a week to shift the smell, which isn't a short enough interval before Alex'll be back and doing the same again.

"Must you make everything so dramatic?" Graham smirks wider, as Alex sighs at length in response, remaining in repose. Graham shifts against the unforgiving back of his chair, before moving to a stand, going to collect a plate, and making himself a relatively simple breakfast. Buttery toast, two slices. He's not really that hungry.

He balances the plate on the spread of his left hand and lounges with his hip pressing against the edge of the laminate worktop, as he watches Dave making the drinks, quickly swallowing down the slightly caught toast with little thought. "So, the studio?"

Dave nods, smiling. "Yeah, I just got paid, so the final amount we needed's there now. You looking forward to it?"

"Do you even have to ask?" Graham pushes away from the counter, running hot water briskly over the plate, tipping a little of the washing-up liquid over it and spreading it around with the tips of his fingers until the surface squeaks, wincing at the heat of the water. Sure, it's a cursory once-over, but he can properly wash-up later. It'll do for now. He grabs his and Alex's tea from Dave, giving him a thumbs-up simultaneously in thanks, as he wends his way to his seat again. He sets both mugs down with a muted thump on the stack of magazines which seems to perpetually refresh itself without his input.

The sound catches Alex's interest. He pulls his arm away from his eyes, and curls mostly upright, to languish with his weight resting on his arms which sink into the seat behind him, a wry glint entering his eyes. "Graham?" He drawls it, voice pulling low, a slight edge of mischief through it. Graham freezes, feeling skittish. "Have you looked at page, oooh, sixteen in that magazine? I think you should." He lifts his tea from the glossy front page, curling lips hidden behind the lip of the mug.

Graham shoves his hands under his arms, feeling his hackles rise, but equally struggling not to keep the surprised laugh from his voice. "Fuck off Alex, I swear-"

Alex sighs again, tossing his head in a vaguely equine manner, so his fringe shifts from his eyes. "Okay, yeah, it's your favourite footballer of the moment, but honestly I think this photo's rather more tasteful than that other one I showed you."

"I'm... glad." He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, feeling the individual struts of the chair's back digging into the muscles along his spine, shooting a glance at Dave who grimaces in sympathy. He hushes his voice. "Look, Alex, I'd appreciate if you'd be a little less... flippant about this."

Alex frowns at him in what looks almost like genuine confusion. "What? I would've done the same if the current object of your affections wasn't male." At the pair of doubtful looks he receives, Alex rearranges his lanky body to sit cross-legged, back straight. He looks indignant.

"Look mate, this really shouldn't be up for discussion." Dave's tone is one of authority; he's one of those people who rarely affects it, but when he does, it's heeded. It helps that he's older by a couple of years, and has that sort of quiet persona which suggests he's very much capable of beating the shit out of you if required. "You need to stop fooling around like this."

Alex throws his hands up, tea sloshing recklessly in the cup. "Fine, fine." He sounds harried, which is rich coming from him, but there's enough seriousness for Graham to feel relieved. He relaxes from a posture he didn't know he was holding, back curling. Dave's still puttering about, scooting the odd bit of cutlery closer to the rest of what's either yet to be washed, or is draining. Graham's got a few chores to do before they can leave.

Still, even after the conversation, Graham still feel safe enough to continue on the topic of his crush - or rather, the burgeoning appreciation he's grudgingly dealing with. "It's not even that I find him a particularly pleasant person - have you heard any of those interviews with him?"

Dave nods gravely, chimes in. "Bit of a twat."

"A bit?!" Graham laughs sharply, drily amused. "Anyway, it's purely a physical appreciation. I mean look at him. Stunning, and he knows it. That's probably why he's a bastard to everyone. Anyone can see how good he looks. Well, except you Alex, 'cause obviously you wouldn't understand. Given how much you whinge that you're straight." He smirks as he sees Alex move to retaliate in his periphery, mouth opening before he thinks better of it, Dave chuckling as he walks over to perch next to Alex on the sofa, forcing him to reluctantly shift across from the centre.

"I do not 'whinge'." A mutter, sotto-voce, and stern. Graham and Dave both cackle, and after a couple of beats Alex acquiesces to a smile. All's well again.

They sit for a while, sipping their tea in companionable conversation. Mostly they talk about music, each of them itching to set out, get to the studio, and finally just play. They've been collectively saving for months, squirrelling away a portion of their earnings each times they've been paid. 

Once they're done with their drinks, Graham collects the still-warm mugs, relishing the gentle heat on his cool hands. "Right, I'll just finish getting ready to go, and then we can leave." They both nod, leaning back into the sagging pillows of the sofa, discussion shifting and flowing naturally.

Graham goes to the bathroom, brushes his teeth, reattempts to organise his hair; there's this one part which just won't settle. Once he's done, he pulls his boots on, lacing them with quick flicks of his wrists, and shrugs on his denim jacket, tugging at the hem so it sits correctly across his lower back. Done.

He waits for the pair to do the same, having had previously removed their own shoes and coats. Graham eyes the light beyond the windows, doing mental calculations. January had pulled into February with surprising briskness, but there's still a barely stifled chill in the air. "How far is it?"

Dave answers. "Not too far. We'll need to take a bus, but besides that, not far to walk."

Graham jerks his chin up once in acknowledgement. He should be fine then. Perhaps the misty wash of high cirrus cloud might burn off, and leave them with a pleasant day. Most likely not.

Before they've even left the building - while they're approaching the door - Graham feels the cold, stuffs his hands into his jacket pockets with put-upon irritation, sighing, garnering two fairly amused huffs of laughter at the little edge of theatricality to it.

\---

It's even better than he'd expected. They've messed about plenty of times with their own instruments, but Graham's acoustic guitar necessitates that he spend reasonable time and effort to press each string to the fret for a clear sound to ring out, so the electric offers him considerable freedom, fingers flitting easily up and down in tones and semitones, then leaping intervals, sometimes indulging in chromatic runs, the odd bend of a string here at there, but mostly watching Alex for his chords and putting a new spin on them: leaving out the third for ambiguity, throwing in a seventh here and there for how much more interesting it sounds.Graham's not sure it's purely the acoustics of the place, but he genuinely doesn't think they've ever played this well, bar the occasional misstep, more often due to muscle memory of their own instruments than actual lack of finesse.

Alex's bass sounds richer, and with the pace Graham can now match, he's encouraged to go all-out, lines slinkier and owing more to disco than the punk stylings he's been leaning on recently. He's shifting back and forth between which foot the majority of his weight's on, dancing along to the groove. Dave's setting a brutal pace. It's exhausting and brilliant, thrashy, and their session's up way too soon.

They walk out into the wintery air in high spirits, elation coursing under their skin. Alex is winding across the pavement, even less laconic than usual. "Let's go out."

"It's still the afternoon, mate."

Alex makes some non-committal noises, before seeming to alight on a good idea. "Yeah but there's that premiership match on later, right? If we get to a pub a little earlier than usual - say... five? - we can get dinner there too. It'll be fun."

Graham rolls his eyes at how chipper Alex is, but says nothing, instead humming in agreement. It'll be nice to go out, and not just for the sake of drinking. "Who's playing?" Both Alex and Dave shrug. Surprising. Graham himself doesn't keep up to date on these things. Less ammunition for Alex to throw back in his face, no matter how playfully.

"Alright, let's do that then."


	3. Law 3: The Players

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A brief warning: there's violence in this chapter, but it's not graphic. Stay leery, though.
> 
> Also, I decided to take off the restriction on anonymous commenting, cause you're all too nice. I've always been wary writing in other fandoms, so I kept it as a hold-over, but my time here has been pleasant and relaxed, and I know that some people won't want to message me on tumblr because I've said I won't take asks. I might relax that in the future. We'll see.
> 
> Long chapter this one, hence why it took me a little longer. Hope it pays off, cause there was a lot of plot which required one single chapter to feel cohesive.
> 
> But yeah, I just wanted to thank all of you who've been reading my stuff and sticking with me. You're all fantastic!
> 
> Unbetaed.

By the time Graham arrives back at his apartment, the night's already setting in, street-lamps casting and eerie glow through the windows. He closes the blinds and curtains, then stumbles blindly through the room to fumble for the light switch, once again finding himself thankful for his generally high standards of tidiness. If it had been Alex's place, he could've fallen over some nondescript detritus and that would've been the end of him.

He gathers a towel and some fresh clothes, grabbing a quick shower and dressing, roughly towelling his hair dry. He's going for casual, as per usual, but in darker colours. His tee's relatively new, a tight black affair with no logo or print. Simple, effective. He dresses it up with a leather jacket and deep grey jeans, pulling on the reliable, thick-soled boots he always wears.

He trots out of the apartment at a light jog, wanting to get himself a little warmer in preparation for the outside air. Sure enough, Alex and Dave are waiting in the concrete courtyard out the front. It's bordered by hedges, left bare and wiry after the winter. A singular lamp attempts to light the space, but it's feeble; it's region of influence quickly diminishes. One half of the walkway is washed in shadow. Alex is a lupine silhouette with his hands in his pockets, back to Graham. Dave's leaning against the dulled metal of the light, looking every inch the threat he could be perceived as, if one weren't au fait with the man.

"Right then?" They nod. "Where're we going?"

"This place Dave and I've been to a couple of times whilst you've been working." Alex's cigarette somehow remains between his lips as they set out walking, his voice managing to remain fairly intact even through the obstruction. Graham wouldn't be surprised if he'd been smoking since he was four. "Pretty new - classy, even. I think you'll like it, and the food's alright."

Graham purses his lips and tilts his head to either side slightly, consideringly. Ought to be decent then. Alex can be a bit of a snob when it comes to cuisine.

The weather's much like it was during the day, only the bitterness now has teeth. It's the sort of weather where breathing in through your nose stings, your eyes water. It gets under his jacket and his skin, setting in until his teeth are clenched. His breaths are evident in the intervals the three of them are illuminated by street-lamps. The fine cirrus from earlier in the day has sunken lower, thickening into a dirty sheet lit from below by the city. A cool breeze slips past every now and then, between periods of still. It's the kind of weather that makes you think a front's coming across from the Atlantic, taking its sweet time. A winter storm might be on the horizon in a couple of days. Great.

"Give us a fag, Alex." The brunette sighs but swiftly proffers his battered box, flipping up the lid, waiting for him to take one, before replacing it and rooting in his back pocket for his lighter. A cheap thing, body translucent plastic. Alex flicks it, shielding the flame with his hand, light flickering across his palm. Graham leans in, inhales lengthily. Given they're still walking, the rhythms of their paces are out of step. Graham reaches to cradle the side of Alex's hand with his left, cold fingertips slipping below his sleeve momentarily, before Graham hurriedly pulls away, breathing out sharply, so smoke streams from his nostrils in amorphous jets, suddenly very aware of himself, throwing his vision across the road to take in the hulking outline of skyscrapers all merging into one beast, hear the vague, blurred roll of traffic which never dies.

He can feels Alex's eyes on him, almost sense the faltered step Alex had to force himself to bypass. God, he thought they were past that. If Dave picks up on any of the air of awkwardness, he doesn't let on. Just keeps up the determined pace, which is as good a way as any to stop Graham from dwelling. Indeed, he wants to be sequestered in warmth as soon as he can be. He's shivering.

Graham notes the increasing business of the streets they follow. They're drawing closer and closer to London's centre. Given it's getting close to dinnertime, it's bustling, and they have to squeeze between couples, and hop to the road to dodge clusters paused on the pavement. It's frenetic, excitement brewing in the few bars they pass, volume jumping every time a door's opened.

Graham frowns in growing suspicion. "Big match, is it?"

"Looks to be." He can see in his mind's eye the way Alex's eyebrows would be drawn high, a look of innocence inscribed over his features: he's been on the receiving end enough times. He grits his teeth, already knowing who's going to be playing. All he can hope for is either a small telly in a corner somewhere, or a table where he can sit with his back to it. And ignore the itch to look around and see who's scored a goal every time a cheer goes through the place's patrons. No doubt by the end of the evening, given that and the claustrophobia, he'll be a twitchy mess.

A few more brisk street crossings between taxis and cars, and they arrive. Like Alex said, it's quite a nice place - leaning heavily on a minimalism which almost feels out of place. It's a far cry from the pub he plays at, open ceiling, white walls, more of a light atmosphere than the almost cloying one he's used to, not a single stretch of dark wood, tacky with alcohol, in sight. The fixtures rely on glass and mirrors to add to the feeling of space. Very Alex. He finds himself wondering just how much this'll cost.

It's certainly a relief to be seated and to know they've got a guaranteed spot for the next couple of hours. They're seated in a booth alongside the wall, cloistered in a corner well away from the television which the main body of the people there are angling towards. So it's a little more peaceful, and Graham wants a little less to crawl out of his own skin.

As they wait for Alex to get back with drinks, he and Dave sit in comfortable silence for a little while. Dave can be intense at times, but more often than not he's a balanced influence. He leans in to hiss under his breath at him, skidding his eyes sideways to ensure Alex is still lurking at the bar, knowing Dave won't bullshit him. "Why are we here?"

Dave looks contemplative, but not concerned. Honest. That's Dave. "Alex really likes this place. We usually try different places but he thought it was alright, and I did too." He leans back, shrugging off his jacket; the place is much warmer than the atmosphere outside. "If you're not comfortable, feel free to leave. Alex is pushing his luck a little. It's cause Chelsea's playing." He just his chin in the direction of boisterous conversation, behind Graham.

Graham had noted the recognisable blue out of the corner of his eye when they entered, and had pushed down on the urge to scan the screen for a flash of blond hair, maybe a closeup on a young face, smoothed by seriousness, as the players trailed onto the pitch before kickoff. He shifts in his chair. Sometimes, when he really starts thinking about this thing, he gets stuck in a cyclical loop, making him feel petty. Really, the only thing he has to make him hate the way he feels is how the man presents himself to the world... And that isn't always an honest thing. It can be as much of a defence mechanism as it can be the person's actual character.

So is it some internalised hatred then? Really, he hasn't ever found other men to be particularly attractive. But then, at the same time, women neither. He thinks he's usually drawn in by personality, which would explain why he dislikes Albarn so much, or at least why he rationalises to himself that that's the case. But even taking a minute or two to think about it makes him feel like his own judgement is pointless - so what if he's attracted to him? What does it matter. He shouldn't care. It should have no impact on himself. Why does he feel the need to wilfully kick back so viciously against a part of himself he can't really fight. Emotion, attraction. How do you make that go away?

He sighs heavily, moving back from where he was hunched over the table, blindly staring into the pale wood's grain, pressing his back into the seat. He's drumming his fingers against the padding of the booth next to his knees impatiently, feeling irked more at himself than anything else. Dave throws him a weak smile, lips pressed thin. They remain in silence until Alex returns babbling about a girl he spoke to at the bar, bringing some levity back.

\---

They eat, and they drink. Graham can feel his inhibitions lowering - he starts smiling more freely at Alex's shitty jokes, his posture is released; he leans back comfortably, knees slightly apart, hands as much a means of speaking as his words, cigarette smoke trailing and mingling with the haze in the air. He forgets his irritation at Alex, or rather, he acknowledges the futility of it. Dave smiles mildly and when he does speak, it's with his typical, almost contrary, cut-glass eloquence.

They finish their meal after some time, their conversation drawing it out from purely eating, to a companionable event. Graham has missed these little get-togethers where they occasionally go out of their way to try somewhere else. Still, he tries to stay closer to sober than drunk, just tipsy enough that he feels lackadaisical and witty, relaxing against Alex's occasional bouts of implication, rebuking him with a sly smile.

He's not sure when the match is over; he'd thought it had finished ages ago, accompanied as it was by riotous celebration - Chelsea must've lost - but a sudden round of jeering begins. Dave cranes his neck to see past the corner of where they're sat, glance across the space to see the cause. Graham's sort of floating in a happy lull, most of the repression and dour humour he uses as defence mechanisms dropped, so when he stands and turns around, his stomach drops in shock; he gasps audibly, hand falling flat to the table to support him, the rush of adrenaline in his stomach lending unwelcome sharpness to his thoughts.

Fucking hell. This isn't real.

Because Damon Albarn's just walked in, clothed smart-casual in a dress shirt undone at the collar, and jeans, both blue, like his eyes, enunciating his lean figure nicely. His shoulders, though not very broad, still pull his shirt across his chest appealingly, and he looks pissed, eyebrows heavy, conveying irritation even with his face decidedly neutral. Some patrons are jeering, and as he walks towards the bar - still away on the other side of the space to them, yet far too close - he's jostled by deliberate shoulders, boisterous laughter kicking up in waves. He's alone, a sole trespasser on territory which is obviously not of his team. It could get ugly. The energy's already up in the room: the only way the situation could be worse is if Chelsea had won. 

Graham forces himself to turn around, slides back down into his chair, blankly looking forwards as Dave's look of disbelief morphs into one of concern. Graham takes a drag of his cigarette hastily. "I'm not more drunk than I thought, right?" Dave pauses, then signifies the negative with a single, emphatic shake of his head. Graham notes, with a modicum of resentment - irrational, he knows - that Alex is still looking, neck craned and jaw slack.

At least Graham can safely say Alex had no hand in somehow arranging this, if that stunned fascination is anything to go buy: he isn't glancing away, not even blinking. Graham, on the other hand, is freaking out. Just a bit. He lifts the butt of his cigarette to his lips, the action imprecise with adrenaline and tail-end of alcohol. He can feel the electricity in the air, though. He's worried - genuinely - that something's going to happen.

"I don't like his chances." Graham fires a sardonic look at Alex, the idle pronouncement coming about twenty seconds after most everyone else has twigged exactly that. Alex turns back to face them, eyes widening in false apology when he sees their twin looks of flat judgement at his words. Graham quickly stands and darts a look back again, noting how disgruntled diners are moving to abscond, wary of the burgeoning aggression in the air.

"Should we leave?" Graham bites it out. It's untenable, how Albarn affects him. He can't think properly.

Dave, levelly, sighs. "Look mate, I don't think this is any reason for us to go." He lifts his pint, taking a generous sip for emphasis. Graham nods once, pushing his chin out, arms crossed over his chest and cigarette held close by his mouth. It's almost done, so he takes a long, final draw, and grinds it out in the ashtray. It leaves him unoccupied, feeling fidgety. A piece of his awareness is inherently focused on the whereabouts of the blond, ear pricked for the rich timbre of his voice, or the faux-asides in deliberately raised tones from any of his would-be aggressors.

Dave and Alex keep chatting, every so often taking in what's happening in the room beyond, but Graham can't. He just hums and nods as they speak, not really adding much to the conversation, split as his attention is. It's going to be a long evening. Graham necks the dregs of his pint, feeling reckless. "Same again?"

Dave breaks warily from his train of thought, pausing his words. The situation he's computing is obvious. Albarn, at the bar. Sitting, drinking steadily. "Sure." The word's fielded slowly, cautiously. Graham darts a smile briefly as he moves away, sniffs, jabbing his fingers at his hair yet again, not really neatening it, nervous energy filling him. He's conscious of his choice of dress, how the top flatters him, how close he's going to stand to the man, because he does have a choice.

Graham wends his way past tables, not really taking much else in, determined as he is to blank Albarn. It almost takes more energy than actually acquiescing and staring, moving close, seeing if, maybe, there's a reason he's still single. Or maybe he likes the freedom to go home with who he likes: no strings. Graham kicks himself at the little flare of hope, the confused strands of thoughts, all intertwining messily, tamps down on it desperately. Despite fancying him sorely, he's not sure how good he's feel after waking up after that, anyway. And besides, he's probably straight. There aren't many people hovering even remotely close to him, though.

Graham goes for a middling distance, about two metres: not far enough away that it could be misconstrued as avoidance - though, why should he care if it were to be? - but not close enough that he's tempted to look from the corner of his eye, or provoke conversation. He's not sure if he could deal with hearing that voice in person. Besides, closer to Albarn, he's got a great vantage on the steady cascade of poorly muffled rumour, hearsay, and epithets which are decidedly unsavoury.

The barman smiles at Graham, as he leans against the wood of the bar, letting it dig into his stomach, hands resting on the surface to either side of his waist. He lists off Alex's drink, then Dave's. He's struck by the potentially volatile situation brewing: families have left a while back, and as the volume of alcohol consumed increases, the rowdiness directed at Albarn has too. "And a water, please?" It goes a little against the grain, but he'd rather one of them had their wits about them when they leave. Just in case.

He bites his lip, bowing his head, getting a little caught up in images of bloody fights and broken limbs. They need to avoid that. He's made the right call. He almost misses the soft, "Hey."

There's movement in his periphery - blue. He wheels in shock from the waist up, heart thudding, suppressing the urge to sidestep away, keeping his feet planted as he can. His nails dig into the lacquered surface, the honey surface indenting. Albarn's moved to a stand and is stood beside him. He scans up and down the man, mute in surprise. He looks soft out of his kit, and with alcohol nipping away at his typical edges: Graham would fall for him in an instant if he saw him in a club, didn't know anything about him. If anything, though, he knows too much. It's a welcome check on his perceptions, reigning him in. The fact that he's intentionally kept his drinking low helps.

At the lack of positive reaction, Albarn seems to falter; his eyebrows fall from where they were raised in pleasant greeting, eyes shuttering a little. He looks sheepish now, reaches his left hand up to scuff at his hair. It draws unhelpful attention to his arm, where the shirt pulls taught around the shoulder. He briskly thrusts his other hand out, laughing uncertainly. "I'm-"

Graham nods, moving his attention to the barman, who's just brought over the drinks. Without looking at the blond, he reaches into his pocket for his wallet, pulling out a tenner and waiting for the change. "Yeah, you don't need to tell me." He gets the change and jams it away, trying to keep his hands steady as he does so, so he doesn't fumble, drop a coin. That would be bad.

When he does look back up enough to carefully acknowledge him as he stuff his wallet back in his pocket, the other man looks decidedly unsure, and it doesn't fit right - doesn't seem right on his usually sharp features. Really, the man's like a whippet: thin, and strong in a lean way, honed perfectly for his career. Graham can admire that, but it's a specialisation. Seeing him play is seeing him in his element, like a painting in a museum. That's his purpose, to be one of the finest and fittest specimens until the next generation comes along. This is all incongruent.

He shouldn't be seeing him outside of the context of football, outside of sycophantic interviews that make his skin crawl, or insufferable soundbites, or the quasi soft porn perfume ads Alex has a particular penchant for finding and lording over Graham.

So he shakes the man's hand, once, with little enthusiasm, whilst inside he's a mess of two opposing fronts - self-loathing managing to help him keep his cool, whilst the other half of him is furious that he won't relax enough to let himself live a little. Who cares if he flirts once? It's a once in a lifetime opportunity. Just as he's gradually opening to the idea, they mutually pull away, social etiquette managing to work automatically as his mind's a litany of curses, mostly directed at himself.

Albarn attempts a smile, and it's obvious he's trying for gracious, mostly succeeds, though there's a flighty edge to his body language now. He bows his head once in acknowledgement then begins to move away, hand raising in a pacifying motion. "I'm sorry for... assuming." 

Graham's eyes widen is horror, just slightly, at the implication there. Fuck. If there's one thing he didn't want to do, it was act like a homophobe. He gathers the glasses to his chest, frantic but trying not to show it. Albarn's already getting himself another drink and it's all Graham can do to flee with an semblance of self-respect.

He fires a look back at Dave and Alex when he's halfway back. They both look aghast, but given their distance away, it'll have been what they read from body language, and not the words spoken. He dumps the glasses with a desperate clatter, almost leaping into his seat. "I fucked up."

"He wanted to sleep with you." Alex's eyes are wide. "What did you do?"

"Alex I'm not going home with a drunk footballer." That's the least of his problems, currently; most pressing is the heat of embarrassment, the oppressive grip of denial, the concrete feeling of being a hypocrite. It burns in his mind and cheeks, and worse is the hollow pain in his chest, below his sternum.

Alex keeps pressing him, and Dave's curiosity is palpable, to the point where Graham snaps at them both not to keep asking him. He nurses his pint glass of water resentfully, sobriety curdling in his veins, feeling pathetic.

\---

Graham feels an awful lot like he ruined a potentially very nice evening. And it all started so well. They're just in the process of settling how they're going to pay when the ruckus breaks out, and the atmosphere goes nasty.

Graham isn't particularly surprised; it's not difficult to work out that a drunken party of revellers when faced with the equally smashed star player of the team theirs just beat might decide to get physical. Albarn's practically knocked from the stool by a vicious right hook, landing surprisingly well, like a cat with all four limbs planted, back arching as he pulls himself up slowly, looking dangerous as he spits a glob of bloody saliva to the wooden floor, coming across surprisingly unruffled, even as unsteady on his feet as he is.

Graham's out of his seat before he even weighs up the situation fully, feeling not a little guilty. He's not alone - the thrower of the punch has been apprehended, vitriol spewing from his lips. Idiot. In a couple of years time, during the world cup, that fucking prat might come to realise he socked England's only hope for when it undoubtedly comes down to penalties, in the jaw.

Graham grabs at his upper arms, pulling him back forcefully, shocked at the sudden armful of striker he's left with, all wiry limbs, surprisingly dense. He falls to a kneel, Albarn collapsing face-first into his chest, moaning at the pain it provokes in his jaw, then going lax from the heady mix of sensation, alcohol, and no doubt exhaustion. Fuck, he's going to have to chuck the tee, probably one of his nicest, because it'll be bloodstained after this. He looks around gravely, relieved to see Alex and Dave rushing over from paying to help him pry the insensate footballer from the floor and them from Graham's front, Graham and Dave supporting him between them.

There's a wary truce, and Albarn's body is like a deadweight across each of their shoulders. They don't get much more hassle, the shock at seeing a player with a genuine injury - blood smeared around his lips from his plunge into Graham - probably having something to do with it, alongside Alex lurking in an especially byronic manner behind them.

They leave promptly, Alex trying to flag down a cab, but getting nowhere fast. "What do we do?" Graham realises that asking two mildly inebriated men about what to do with an unconscious celebrity when he's the sober one is a bit stupid. He sort of knows what they have to do - cart him back to Graham's flat and deal with the outcome there, because it's bitter outside now, winter night settling in heavily, and the blond is really not dressed for lingering. But this could easily be portrayed as kidnap of a famous personality by a tabloid, and Graham is not really a fan of the odds. He desperately scans the street around them, but they must be lucky. What's one more black-out drunk being helped home by his friends at midnight?

"Alright." He's more answering himself than either of the other two. Dave is somber and trying his best to co-ordinate his steps with Graham so as not to jostle him overly so, and Alex seems overwhelmed. They begin the long shamble back.

\---

The three of them stumble into Graham's apartment, Albarn more a dead weight than anything else, and he's immediately fretting before they even have him temporarily propped on the sofa. Dave goes to make some tea for the three of them, and Alex goes to talk with him in intentionally hushed tones as Graham take in the presence of the man before him, fear rooting him to the ground. He can feel he's being observed from behind. His brain's skipping over details like they're black ice, unobserved but obviously, frustratingly there.

It takes Dave proffering a mug of hot liquid to shake him, and from there Graham can't stop - he dashes into his room, rendering it even more tidy, and far more impersonal, as though he can't stand the idea of being any more real to Albarn than the footballer is to him. He gathers his own pyjamas - proper ones this time, not just make-do - then secrets himself in the bathroom to change and stare into the mirror for a good five minutes, periodically splashing water in his face to try to ground himself in sensation. It's not exactly working.

He eventually leaves, hearing a discussion developing of what to do with the prone footballer. They use a flannel to clean the blood from his face and chin as carefully as possible. They decide to lift him in much the same way as they carried him before, and it pulls again on Graham's shoulder and side. In the morning he's going to feel the ache of it. As it it, when they've set him down on the quilt, he moves his arm in circles, crooked at the elbow, flexing his shoulder and grimacing at the answering twinge. Graham deliberates over what to do about clothes, then decides that given the mess of blood left on his shirt, it's probably best to take it off. He mostly looks at the headboard instead, feeling uncomfortable, prude, at the unwitting voyeurism of what he's doing, and that the man isn't conscious.

He pulls him up with his forearm across his back, and his head lolls forward against his shoulder, as he pulls the unbuttoned shirt down and off his arms, before gently rolling him down into the pillows again. The jeans are staying on. Graham thinks he wouldn't be able to look himself in the eye for weeks if he went any further. It feels wrong. He folds the ruined shirt and places it on the dresser, then before leaving reels back to grab some old clothes he doesn't mind missing for a while for the man to borrow. He probably won't want to return to wherever he lives in the same, bloodstained outfit. That would certainly kick up a fuss.

And with that, Graham leaves the room. He still feels like there's something he's missing, that he needs to do as host, even an unintentional one. It comes to him when his gaze alights on a glass draining. He strides over and pours a generous amount of water in from the tap, then grabs a box of paracetamol from the bathroom, tiptoes into the room again, even knowing it's irrational. And then he's done.

He pulls the door firmly shut behind him, feeling skittish and vulnerable. Dave and Alex look wrecked, and he sends them on their way, agreeing to their requests to come around as soon as they can make it, in the morning. He sees them off, bidding them a safe journey back - squinting at his watch tells him it's close to one. He yawns, moves over to his collapsing sofa, grabs the blanket that lies folded behind it for situations just like this, and lies down, shivering a little as everything wears off. He falls into sleep with unusual haste.


	4. Law 4: The Players' Equipment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took me way too long to write, I think due to procrastination. There's very little plot, but the exposition/character building needed to be done at some point. I would like to note that even brief checks between different writing sessions revealed mistakes to me, and there'll doubtless be more, for which I apologise. I've been very tired the last few days. But hopefully, all that aside, you enjoy.
> 
> Unbetaed.

Just as Graham fell into slumber suddenly, he wakes swiftly too. Though it doesn't mean easily: the late night, effects of alcohol - thankfully nothing worse than a bad headache, his consumption having been a fraction of the usual - and the ache across his body's major muscle groups, and then some, all combine so that Graham moans lowly into the tatty blanket he's ensconced in. That's not the worst part though; the memories of the night previous are already present in his uninhibited mind - the train-wreck of an interaction they had. He wallows miserably for a good ten minutes, pondering his situation, replaying Albarn's wounded fear, before the awful feeling of a dry throat, and the cloying fuzziness of his mouth and tongue, are both too much for him to abide by.

He tries pushing himself from the sofa and almost instantaneously finds himself regretting it. Having slept on the sofa has compounded the strain already on his body with poor posture. He stretches morosely, bare feet cold on the floor and his pyjamas vaguely uncomfortable in some manner, poorly-fitting as they are. He's had them for years, and the arms are too tight whilst the waist is overly loose. He yawns extravagantly, before hissing a particularly creative plethora of curses at himself, Alex and Dave, Albarn, his body, the sofa, and the universe in general. What a fucking mess. He scoops his glasses from the ground and pushes them on, frowning and raising his eyebrows repeatedly a couple of times so they rest on the bridge of his nose properly.

He gingerly pads to the bathroom through the dark of the room, passing his bedroom, the doorway deep in shade. There's slight illumination filtering in past gaps above and to the sides of the curtains from the street-lamps outside, seeming hazy, probably from mist, or fine rain. Everything's wrought in varying navies and greys. He's glad his bathroom's not an en suite. He shuts and locks the door behind him, then winces upon switching the light on, still squinting mildly as he goes about his ablutions before his eyes adjust. Each footfall feels too loud, even knowing that the guy in his room isn't likely to be woken before his body determines it's finally ready to. And that stops Graham in his tracks as he shuffles to wash his hands in the sink: how long is he going to have to wait for the footballer to leave his room - to leave his flat, even?

And Alex and Dave are supposed to be coming around at some point. Would he rather they were here whilst Albarn's still here, or not? God. Graham dries his hands off on the hand-towel jerkily, thoughts far more focused on conjecture than his current goings on. He can feel the edges of panic setting in, breaths coming too quick, too loud in the confined space of the bathroom. He flees quickly, beelining for the kettle. It's an excuse to keep his hands busy, the anxiety at bay. The clock on the wall reads six twenty-seven. Fantastic.

He tuts audibly, and it's a lonely sound in the comparative silence of the room, as he waits for the kettle to come to boil. The quiet invites him to strain his hearing, and being conscious of it means he can't get the idea of Albarn, doing something so human as sleeping, out of his mind. Jeans ought to be uncomfortable. Would the sheets still be on him, or is he a restless sleeper; has he kicked them down, and have they twined around his legs?

Graham shakes his head, feeling aghast at himself, mouth open in a silent laugh of disbelief, disapproval heavy in his mind. He's once again struck with warring thoughts - who cares whether he thinks about the other man? The answer's fairly obvious: nobody but himself. He's had an iron will about things like this, always has. Rarely allows himself to indulge, leading to a fair amount of repression and a hefty dollop of prudishness, which stoops over his thoughts always, an unshakeable shadow. He wishes he could start living without inhibitions like that - he's taken steps, but his skin never feels right when he does, worried as he is about judgement, even when he patently knows that no other person cares.

Fucking hell. He blinks bemusedly at himself, huffing out a bitter laugh at his own expense, his lips pulling into an incredulous smile. He makes himself some tea, then occupies himself with beginning to clean his already well-kempt flat, starting with doing the washing up, steaming water a soothing warmth on his skin through the rubber gloves. He rinses, then dries the cutlery, plates, mugs, and other assorted kitchenware, before returning them to their rightful homes. It's nice to have the space clear, but it weighs heavily on him that now there's nothing left for him to do to exercise his nervous energy on.

The time reads six forty-nine. Graham reclines as casually as he can in front of the sink, the edge of the counter pressing hard into the small of his back, sighing deeply with his head titled back as he holds the warm mug between his hands, clutching it just below his chin, resting on its edge. It's a good temperature to drink - the kind of just-too-hot which is somehow cathartic to feel wash down your throat when under pressure. It steams up his glasses, heats his face as vapour crosses it, and his skin's left cool whenever he looks away, staring across the gloom towards the veiled window.

He can't escape the door to his room: recessed as it is, the door's washed in grey, like slate, a large area of it which catches the corner of his eye. He feels better having it in his line of sight, though. Better than while he was washing up, with it behind him. The sofa's still messy. He'll sort out the blanket soon, but he feels an odd tranquility in this moment: contemplation and peacefulness contrasting oddly with the sickness in the pit of his belly; it's like before walking into an exam, when all he has to rely on is himself, his own intuition. That feeling of willing isolation.

He's feeling a little hungry, but he doesn't want to fuck up his schedule to much. He'll feel better if he waits a while. He places the mug back down beside the kettle with the barest clunk, moves over to the sofa and folds the blanket, leaves it out of the way behind it. He rises from his kneel, turns towards the window. The light's still mainly artificial, the sun not having risen yet. Still, he draws the curtains open, shifting his weight onto his right leg to take in the view a couple of stories below: the square, paved courtyard leading directly to the road running parallel to the face of the building, its single lamp surrounded by a corona of striating light, shifting from yellow to a dull orange.

Edges further away from the illumination are softened by moisture in the air, lending a ghostly feel. The twin hedges following the walkway are hulking, vague shapes, smudge-like, reminiscent of watercolour. The grass beyond each is overgrown, but from a distance, grey. On the opposite side of the road, buildings hunker down, most of them seeming lifeless, but the occasional window is lit up. There's one person walking alongside the road, made ambiguous by their thick, dark coat, warding off the chill, and the damp, hunched slightly. The clouds above are thick, holding the faltering sun at bay.

Graham sighs, shifting away from the rather depressive scene, deciding that there really isn't any point in holding back from breakfast, with how his stomach feels hollow. It's not like he feels like eating much, but something's better than nothing, and hopefully it'll help him feel a tad more settled.

Walking back across his own room should not make him feel like he's trespassing. He keeps feeling like looking over his left shoulder, glance at the door: almost expects to see the blond leaning cockily against the door frame in his habitually low-slung jeans and without his shirt, arms crossed and sneering, door open and still, like he's been stood there and watching the whole time, laughing.

The image clashes with that of what he witnessed last night; a man seemingly soft, and without pretension, and - far more noteworthy - who wanted to sleep with Graham. It doesn't bear thinking about. Graham squeezes his eyes shut, pulls his glasses away, and exhales at length, bringing his thumb and forefinger up to press at either side of the bridge of his nose, cursing his luck.

He draws himself together, eventually, pushing himself into a semblance of calm, making himself another cup of tea, and some buttered toast. He seats himself primly at the dining table, feeling somehow rather foolish, sink behind him, so the doorway is always clearly in his sights. He chews mechanically, leaning his upper body's weight onto his right elbow, slice of toast dangling dejectedly from between his fingers, holding the crust so they don't get greasy, grimacing at the dryness of the toast in his mouth as it cloys, having to try to wash it down with tea, risking scorching his tongue.

In the end, a mixture of his unsettled stomach, and the general unpleasantness of the experience, mean he gives up with less than a slice left, nudging the plate sickly with the tips of his fingers until it's beyond his right arm, and thus, unseen, so he can better ignore its presence, reaching out behind him until he snags his cigarettes and lighter. He deliberates over whether he wants his flat to have a chance for the smoke from Alex's smoking to clear. Fuck it. He draws one out, pressing it between his lips, and flicks the flint a couple of times, inhaling until it takes.

He places the metal lighter down firmly to the table, before resting his forehead heavily on the back of his hand, staring down at the table's surface with unfocused eyes, exhaling a plume of smoke. Fucking hell. He's sat in his ill-fitting pyjamas, feeling nauseous, and the fact he actually didn't plan anywhere near far enough ahead last night - he doesn't have a change of clothes, busy as he was worrying about the plight of the other man - is a cold realisation, something he knew but hadn't really considered per se, until now.

Graham clenches his jaw, taking a short, strong drag, weighing up his two options with very little optimism. Either he ventures into his room to find a change of clothes, or he stays away and eventually greets Albarn when he decides to surface, vulnerable in clothes he isn't comfortable in. He's strongly erring towards the latter.

He stays like that for a while, thoughts a dazed whirl, passage of time marked purely by the creeping of the cigarette into white ash. Trying to avoid the obvious topics only draws him closer to them, reminds him of very specific fragments of memory, elicits the ghost of an unknowing cheek resting on his shoulder, soft hair brushing his neck - smooth, warm skin under his palm. Graham necks his lukewarm tea in one go, gritting his teeth.

Graham pauses, tilts his head, and lowers the mug slightly from his lips. There's been a shift in the air of the apartment - a vague, primal whisper from his hindbrain tells him so - and he sits up straight, suddenly wary, placing the mug down measuredly on the surface, so as little sound as possible is made. He fixes his gaze on the door to his room with wide eyes, straining to discern whether it's moved at all, whether the handle's dipped. He remains poised, scrutinising the doorway with an intensity he usually reserves for music.

Enough time passes for Graham to begin relaxing back into his seat, slowly uncoiling his muscles, tapping his fingers rhythmically, before the handle does move. Graham isn't sure what he was truly expecting, but seeing the footballer back in his own creased, blue shirt, the front flecked in rust-like, dried-in blood, was not it. The man's eyes are huge like pools at seeing Graham, even whilst squinting against the hang-over, and he draws the door closed behind him, unseeing, not once looking away from Graham, as though afraid. Well, certainly, after their dreadful conversation last night, and everything else this situation entails, it's not exactly surprising Damon's unsettled. He's flashed a brief, toothy half-smile, an attempt at placating, if Graham's intuition is right, as Albarn continues hovering before the door.

The pitiful demonstration sets Graham's brain off with a fresh barrage of self-denigration, kicks him into gear for playing the dutiful host. He rises so quickly from his chair that Albarn flinches, and Graham winces. "Here, sit down." He beckons him to the seat across from him, clearing his crockery, before loosely indicating the kettle. "Tea, coffee?"

Albarn scratches his head, rumpled hair being mussed further. He moves further into the room, and Graham can see more clearly the state of him. His left cheek's swollen up, skin a vivid red, with plum darted through. It hadn't looked anywhere near as bad before he stepped out into the light, but now Graham understands why the man's carefully palpating the skin surrounding it with light fingers, skimming away when he hits something too tender. He flexes his jaw before speaking, voice rough with sleep, hangover, and pain, lower than Graham's ever heard. "Tea, please."

Graham wilfully clamps down on the little shiver that wants to travel the length of his spine, setting about getting out an extra mug, making himself another, too. He feels awkward and self-conscious, can feel cautious eyes on him. The man clears his throat. "'Scuse me, do you have any mouthwash?"

Graham turns to look at where the footballer's curled in on himself, perched on the edge of the chair, forehead resting on his palm and elbow planted on the table, puzzled. "Yeah?"

Damon continues looking at him for a moment, before laughing to himself lightly, speaking before Graham has the chance to construe it in any way as negative. "It's just, dried blood tastes like shit." There's a little bit of a grin, the atmosphere shifting as Albarn seems to realise he's not about to be shouted out of the apartment, and Graham begins to feel himself settle, the oddness of the situation not really sinking in at all, allowing him to respond without thinking too much.

"Oh, sure - it's in the bathroom." Graham points towards the only other door within the apartment, and after a nod, the other man gingerly stands and walks. He's getting more comfortable, his glimpse of his usual swagger returning to his steps.

Graham doesn't let himself feel too hurt by Albarn's careful behaviour towards him so far - god knows he would've acted identically - but even though the likelihood of them ever meeting after today is probably close to nil, Graham would like to resolve the issues between them. Primarily, that of being assumed to be straight, and also that being hit-on was somehow an insult. He's never understood that, never will.

By the time he comes back, Graham's made the tea, and is awaiting the footballer's return to see whether he wants to eat, and what. He lingers with his back to the worktop, observing Albarn's amble to the table. Really, besides the awful bruising, and the wetness of his eyes kicked up by the alcohol of the mouthwash on the lacerated insides of his cheeks, he looks very much physically sound. Even the hangover doesn't really seem to be impeding him, although it probably helps that Graham's flat is quiet, and the winter light is weak. Graham tuts under his breath, a tad envious, but with no real heat.

Albarn inclines his head in thanks at the tea, before his gaze alights on the cigarettes. He darts his eyes up to Graham, holding his gaze intensely, waiting a beat, as though measuring whether he'll be pushing his luck too far. "Do you mind me having one?" 

Graham starts, tries to hide it, breaks their eye contact. He waves ineffectually with his hands in a way which probably ends up looking dismissive. "Yeah, sure." He looks around, desperate for something else to focus on, as Albarn removes a single cigarette with his left hand, and places it between his lips, lighting it with little preamble, then chucking the lighter down with little momentum from the flat of his hand, so it skids to a stop almost immediately. Graham swallows at the byronic image before him, then shakes himself. "Look, do you want anything for breakfast? I can do you some toast? Or..." He shuffles off to the cupboard to check what cereals he has, spirits sinking when his suspicions are confirmed. "There's Wheatabix?"

"Honestly mate, I'm fine." His voice is different in person. Like he's affecting his voice in the interviews, more chirpy, and Estuarial. He probably does. Graham moves closer and smoothly slides into his chair sideways, not taking his eyes off the man, before lighting himself another cigarette, and keeping his tea squarely in front of him, as though it'll somehow protect him. Albarn has a warm-natured glint of amusement in his eye, though Graham can't himself place why.

"Surely smoking and drinking are bad habits for a footballer?" Graham can't stop himself from blurting it out. The other man pauses, seeming to be taken unawares by the question, but he smiles.

"Yeah." He takes a long draught of tea, and Graham can see his throat work. Fuck. He blinks and looks away. The urge to correct their conversation last night is biting at him. Neither speaks. Graham's eyes skip to the blood on his shirt, concern overtaking his guilt.

"I left some fresh clothes out." Graham's slightly unsettled at the surprise in the man's eyes.

"I thought they were for you to wear..."

"No! I just thought that you might like fresh clothes to wear when you go back to wherever you live." Graham squirms, pressing his back into his seat to ground himself, and fitfully running a hand through his hair. "Besides, they're quite old, so I don't need them back, so they were ideal candidates, really." He laughs nervously, stomach feeling slick, swooping.

"Oh." He says it quietly, musing into his tea. "Thank you." The smoke from his cigarette, held between his first two fingers, filters up to the ceiling in an uninterrupted stream, fading as it rises. In the silence between them, Graham's overcome by the urge to absolve himself.

"Um." How does he refer to the man. 'Albarn' seems to cool, 'Mr Albarn' too sycophantic, or juvenile. "Damon." He tries out the name, the taste of it on his lips. "Can I call you that?"

The other man looks affronted, brows furrowing. "Of course." Graham isn't quite sure what to make of his reaction, but continues nonetheless. "What's yours?"

"It's Graham." He looks straight at the man - Damon, he's permitted - before, swallowing. He wraps his left hand, cold with nerves, around his right wrist, tight, looking away. He taps the end of his cigarette on the edge of his plate, dislodging the ash. "I don't know how much you remember from last night." He hazards a glance at the man, noting how his eyes shutter slightly.

"Most of it, yeah." The defensive edge to his voice tells Graham all he needs to know. Damon indicates for him to continue, taking a sip of tea, casually, eyes boring into Graham the whole time.

"I just want to say that..." What does he want to say? You hit on me, and I fancy you like hell, but I'm sorry, I don't like you? But... Damon's been nothing but nice to him both these times, perfectly polite. "I'm not gay-" Damon's face goes blank and his posture perfect.

"I think I was made well-enough aware of that." He stops abruptly, jaw clenching. "If you want me to leave, I can go right now." It's not a question; he's already pushing the seat back and moving to a stand, eyes like flint. Graham reaches out, frantic, latches a hand around Damon's wrist, recoiling at the severity of the look he's shot in return, as he shakes free.

"Damon, Damon, all I was saying - or rather, what I was trying to say - is that I do like men!"

Damon does pause at that. He looks wrong-footed, but curious. "But, last night?" He doesn't sound coveting, or angry at the fact he was rebuffed, just interested. He scans what he can see of Graham, though it's cursory, a reappraisal.

"I don't like casual flings." Graham can hear how tight his voice was, so by no means could Damon have missed it, but he doesn't react to it. Graham thinks that his response was better than the flippant, "Because I can't stand you," which first jumped to his tongue, hot-headedly.

"Fair enough." Damon smirks. "I almost prefer it. Ironically, people tend to be more honest about what they want from you." The laddishness grates on Graham, reminding him of why he actually turned the man down. Quite quickly, though, the bluster fades from Damon's persona. He sits down, and the space between them isn't quite as laden with tension as before, air cleared. Graham finishes his tea and cigarette at the same rate as Damon, who seems happy enough to provide enough idle conversation to carry them through, until the man takes a look at the clock, and seems to decide he'd better leave.

Graham clears the table swiftly, as Damon hovers, appearing suddenly uncertain. Graham walks ahead of him, and in the tiny space, walking towards his bedroom, he feels off-kilter and jittery in his belly. Damon's right behind. He presses down on the handle and pushes open the door, eyes struggling to help guide him through his room, relying on his memory of the place. It smells musty, different: of blood, and sweat, and whiskey, and Graham feels weirdly imposed-upon, but he finds he doesn't mind, and that irks him. He crosses to the tiny window, goes to open the curtains and turns away, so as to spare his eyes from the brunt of adjusting again. It means he's looking at Damon, silhouetted halfway in the doorway, leaning in uncertainly from his waist, lit slightly blue.

As Graham drags them apart, Damon throws up his arm, shielding his eyes, then looks past warily, obviously still suffering the effects of last night, but soldiering on admirably. Graham goes over to grab the spares he was willing to lend, points to Damon's shoes on the floor. "You can use the shower, if you like?"

"Nah, that's okay, I'd prefer to get home as soon as I can." Graham berates himself for the swell of disappointment, subduing it immediately. He heads over to Graham, obviously noting his acoustic for the first time: his eyes hold on it, some real interest there, but he doesn't mention it. As he reaches for the clothes, Damon takes stock of what's being offered to him. "Honestly, I'd rather I just borrowed your tee shirt. I don't think my jeans have anything on them." He looks himself up and down, moving his leg to the side, then the other, twisting at the hips to see behind him as much as he can. Graham clenches his teeth and decisively does not follow his gaze, waiting for Damon to take just the top instead. He receives an apologetic smile, before the man ducks to grab his shoes and leaves for the bathroom to change.

Graham stands there, for a second. Just stares at the wall. He's not sure he's processed everything quite yet, so it's more in stunned awe, and a little resentment. At Damon, at the situation, at himself. All for multiple things. Fuck this. He shakes his head and clicks his tongue, swiftly drawing one of the curtains closed, and hiding behind it so he can change as hastily as possible. He throws on a striped tee - grey and tight, the fit he likes - and pulls on the jeans he offered to Damon as quick as he can, grabbing some socks and putting them on too. He feels much warmer, and much more comfortable. Strange, the effect sartorial choices can have on a person.

He chucks his pyjamas onto his bed - he can deal with them later - and tries walking as subdued as possible out into the main space of his flat, hands stuffed in his pocket, shoulders set, back to both doorways in a way which surely screams it's an act. He leaps at the sound of the bathroom lock undoing, panic setting in fresh, and he turns, only to be struck silent by Damon walking out, the roots of the hair around his face damp and curling from washing it.

He's got the clothes Graham discarded in there at god knows what hour in the morning, when they brought Damon back cradled in one arm, along with his own blue shirt, which is enough to embarrass Graham, but he's left speechless seeing how his old top fits on Damon. The differences in their physiques are made clear. Damon's marginally narrower in the shoulder, but thicker-set in the middle, torso strong whilst not being overly bulky, but compared to Graham's waist it makes a marked change, so he can see definition underneath the thin material. Paired with Damon's low-waisted jeans, Graham's quite entranced.

"These are yours, right? I noticed the tee shirt's got blood on it, but it looked nice on you, so it'd be a shame if it were a lost cause. I'll try getting it cleaned." He looks up with a genuine smile, too wide, so he winces and turns away to hover his left hand above his pained cheek, tamping down on the enthusiasm. "It's the least I can do."

Graham wants to object, but Damon's already wandering to the door to leave. "Hey, do you have something to write on, and a pen?"

Graham shakes himself, trying to catch up with a conversation which seems tangential. "Yes, why?"

"I'll write down my number, so you can call me and arrange to pick up the tops from me when it's a good time?"

That's a good idea. And an infinitely bad one. He diligently grabs a note pad, and a biro, and writes down the sequence dictated to him. "No mobile phone, then?"

Damon fires back, all exaggerated cheekiness. "Well, I do have one, but I was thinking you might need to leave me a message."

Graham sighs, rolls his eyes, can't fight the beginnings of a grin when Damon laughs, quite heartily. Damon smiles at Graham, and Graham at him, and the moment draws out, Graham beginning to feel fidgety, a little jumpy, moving his hand though his hair haltingly. It seems to get to Damon, who shifts on his feet and gives him a small, but kind quirk of the lips, waiting for Graham to open the door.

As he moves to leave, Damon proffers his hand, and after a moment of hesitation, Graham reaches out to shake. Only, after a cursory shake, Damon locks eyes with him, slowly brings Graham's hand up, and ducks slightly, so his lips brush barely against the skin of his knuckles, looking up from under heavy brows and through thick eyelashes. He releases his hand, stepping through the doorway with a little grin, waving over his shoulder.

Graham pushes the door shut, dazedly. He walks towards his sofa, and sinks into it slowly, heart beating fast and stomach flipping, replaying the image in his mind, stunned.


	5. Law 5: The Referee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mmm, 5.5k of expository goodness... Sorry about that. Damon can't be in every chapter. At least, not yet.
> 
> Uh yeah, I've been busy the last while. Hopefully this feels in character. Anyway, this is unbetaed, as always, so mistakes are my own, and I apologise.

Graham realises he's jigging his leg up and down, feeling trembling and nervy. He rakes his hand through his hair, huffing in disbelief, still tense, beginning a slow come-down from the strange high of excitement. The innocuous piece of paper is still on the table, the numbers scribbled down in haste. Graham can just about see it from the sofa, from this angle, and his stomach swoops every time he sees it, recapitulation of events overriding the present. Holy fuck.

Graham's restlessness remains, conscious as he is of his impending engagement: Alex and Dave'll be round any time. It's a bit of a sobering thought, enough to make him get to his feet and investigate his bedroom proper. He feels tempted to tiptoe again, and has to remind himself that he's the only one in the flat, and he's not disturbing anything. Pressing his fingertips to the door lightly whilst in motion is more than enough to carry it further open. The area is mostly undisturbed, barring the bed, and even then, Damon's made it, smoothed the quilt - a little roughly, perhaps, creases gathered more on one side than the other, probably more a byproduct of briskness stemming from wariness, than a lack of care - but effort was expended all the same.

Graham steps closer, haltingly, last pace leaving him with most of his weight balanced on his front foot. He reaches out, pressing his teeth into his lower lip, running the backs of his knuckles across the surface, as though the material would still hold heat from the body priorly beneath it. Graham snorts at himself, tuts and shakes his head, finishing the last half-step to the bed, smooths out the cool sheet properly, with wide sweeps of his hand across it.

He steps back, tilting his head, conflicted. He has a routine with these things. It's a day early to change the sheets, though he would've immediately done so if the sheets had been blood-flecked, or if Damon had been sick at all. Neither of these things is the case, though. The choice he has feels almost symbolic. Graham reaches hesitantly for the pillow, then snatches it up, holding it a small distance in front of him, feeling ridiculous. He leans in, jittery, breathes in. Graham can smell alcohol, and cologne.

He hastily presses it back into place, guilt twinging through him. He backs away a couple of metres, then twists away, walking further, lifting both hands to sink into the hair at the back of his head, elbows sticking out, feeling the pull in his back and shoulders. He hisses, and it moves into a heavy sigh, dropping his head back a little. The ceiling is bland on his eyes. He lets them fall closed, unsettled as images rise unbidden to the forefront of his mind. This is all wrong.

Graham straightens, and wheels to fetch the glass, and the box of paracetamol from the bedside table, teeth gritted. The watery light from outside is enough to see fingerprints on the glass, and at the rim, the patina left by his lips. He glowers, and marches from the room. Now it finally looks untouched. There's not really much he can do about the stale scent of sweat, and drink, though.

After that, Graham deflates. He's still nervy, but most of the adrenaline in him has left his system, and he's tired and achey, listless. Now he waits for his friends, to regale a story which, in all honesty, he doesn't want to formulate into words, let alone share. It involves a specific context of his own character, and no matter how sweet and supportive Alex can be when it's needed, he doesn't seem to have the finest grasp of nuance of personality, of foibles. Graham's got many of those, and one of them is a broad distaste for Damon Albarn, striker for Chelsea. It rings false in his mind, even to him.

Graham's also stubborn, to the point where he will do something which ends up spiting himself, long after his opinion has changed, just so he doesn't have to admit he was wrong. He fights it, and usually he's able to let go, but with something as personal as this, it burns him.

He spies the piece of paper again. When should he call? Is today too soon? He thinks he should wait at least a day. God knows that tee of his is beyond salvaging, and there's really no point in getting back the other one. But, if he doesn't respond, the man might come around to drop it off, or worse, ask why he hadn't called. Graham doesn't think he can deal with either of those things. But nor does he want to go to the other man's home. It's apparent that Damon likes him enough to want to sleep with him. Or maybe it's a game to him. That sobers Graham, a sternness settling in his mind. He shan't call today. But he will call tomorrow, and when he goes round, he'll only pick up the top, and nothing else.

He lifts the sheet, stares at the numerals, feeling like they must be burnt into his memory at this point, even as shit as he is at remembering phone numbers. It needs to be kept safe somewhere. Graham raises his head, looking around on the spot to try to spy a suitable place for it. But there isn't really one here. Ah, he'll just have to leave it in his room. He treads carefully back in, ignoring how different the space feels now, the knowledge he has tinting it exotic. He places the page down delicately on the bedside table, beside his clock, and a plethora of other detritus.

He nods to himself, a jut of his chin, the motion partnered with pursed lips. He feels a little more businesslike after that, trying to hold the situation at bay with a clinical regard. And it works, for the most part. He keeps his thoughts wandering less, and he's more able to subdue the leaps of his pulse whenever he thinks of rosy lips on his skin, or how his top looked on another.

It's with little fanfare that the knock on his door arrives, sometime later. Graham had managed to keep himself occupied, humming melodies to himself and trying roughly to sketch out some possible chord progressions. He stalks to the doorway, feeling immediately cagey. He opens the door, Alex already bustling through before it's even half open, neck craning, dark eyes flickering across the space behind Graham, hunting for the figure of Damon. He brushes a hand over Graham's shoulder as he proceeds into the flat, observing the remains of his and Damon's breakfast - if it could quite be called that - and the two cigarette butts resting on the plates' edges.

Graham sighs under his breath, lips pulled into a thin line. Dave nods in greeting, shooting him a sardonic smile when Graham rolls his eyes at Alex's behaviour. Dave steps through politely, looking exhausted, eyes bleary, heading over to the sofa whilst massaging his shoulder, sitting down immediately, idly watching Alex's faux-casual investigation. Graham shuts the door firmly, hoping his disagreement with the man's conduct is clearly telegraphed. Not that it'll make a difference. Dave plainly sympathises, though.

Alex comes to a stop when he's level with the door to the bedroom, noting he can see in, now, and there's wan daylight coming through. He turns to Graham, quirking an eyebrow. "Gone, is he?" His voice is fairly loud, loud enough to prompt wincing from Dave, and would've been fairly unpleasant for a relative stranger to hear. The fact that Graham doesn't surge forwards to shush him, or berate him, scold him, must tell Alex everything he wants to know. He almost looks disappointed. Graham's a little bit resentful about that, has to swallow down the irritation, fingers fidgeting where his hands hang by his sides.

He watches as Alex seats himself primly beside Dave, one crossed over the other. He's lupine, all arrogance and long-legged grace. Jealousy is not something Alex revels in when subjected to it himself, preferring to be its instigator. Graham isn't even sure if the man recognises it on himself. He'll have to tread a little carefully around this, perhaps. That is, if Alex allows it, isn't stupid about this.

"Left quite a while ago, actually." Graham walks towards the table, snatches up his lighter and cigarettes, taking a long draw as he lights it, eyes on Alex.

"I see you've softened your stance." Alex juts his chin at the cigarette in Graham's hand, but he really means the twin burnt stubs on the plates. Graham huffs through his nose, a brief snort without humour.

"You never paid attention to when I asked you not to." Graham shrugs, a vacant motion, smile insincere, as he pulls out the chair Damon sat on not an hour previously, so he can face the two men. Alex tuts to himself, pulling out his own cigarettes, soon breathing out lazy trails of smoke past his open lips.

Dave grimaces, leans forwards, engaging Graham in conversation while Alex burns though his cigarette apace. "So..." Dave's curious, but not in the way that Alex would be, if it were about any person other than this. Dave always comes across more neutral, for the most part, more steady. There are a few topics you can rile him on. Graham avoids those.

"So?" Graham grins, feeling a little burst of playfulness, even with his earlier feelings of reluctance to discuss this. He cocks an eyebrow, feeling a little thrill at the memories. He has to consciously tamp down on his giddiness, and glancing across at Alex helps. His lips are pressed into a shapely pout, looking decidedly like a French heroine, dejectedly staring into the slight, soft shadows cast by the pallid sunlight, stretching from the sofa's base to beyond the table, the far wall.

Dave tilts his head, sending him a knowing look. "You know what I mean." He laughs, once, shifting in his seat, before standing, moving to grab a glass from the cupboard, and pouring himself a drink. He looks a little queasy upon standing, pressing the heel of his hand to his brow-bone briefly as he sips, then moving back to sit down with a sigh. "Who didn't have breakfast? Or did you share?" Dave grins teasingly at him, taking another drink, lips curled wryly.

Graham bows his head, mild irritation and amusement meshing, so he smiles, perhaps too genuinely, leaning his elbows on his knees. Alex tuts, a condescending sound. "Look at that, he's smitten." Graham frowns, about to strike back with some sort of riposte, a flurry of foul language which he'd spit without thought, or premeditation, the result unknown to him as much as them. But Dave holds up a hand, and Graham bites back the syllables, hackles up.

"And what's wrong with that?" Alex sinks deeper into the sofa, slouch worsening. He has no response for that, plainly - Dave's good at that kind of thing, posing statements to coax others into admitting their lack of basis for argument - other than to scoff, lean his head back against the sofa, and continue smoking, air haughty and injured.

"He just didn't want anything to eat." Graham gestures openly from the wrist with the hand he's holding the cigarette in, a jolting movement, an afterthought to attempt to add casualness, because things are getting a little too close to the bone for Graham to feel truly comfortable. He wants to steer the conversation away, but it resigned to the fact that it plainly won't happen. "Think he had a sore mouth after that punch. He just had tea with me."

Dave shuffles in his seat, pulling up a leg, so the ankle rests on his knee. He leans his cheek on his fist, elbow on the arm of the sofa. He looks at Graham, quite intently. His eyes are pale, but in the weak illumination, they're shaded, inscrutable. "Did you enjoy it?" Graham cocks his head. A deceptively simple question, in that there are so many ways to answer, each seeming to him more incriminating than the last. Dave's dead serious, not joking around with him. His tone's soft, careful. Graham pulls up, straightening his posture, and pushing back in the chair, until its back digs into his spine. Grounding. He brings his cigarette to his lips measuredly, inhales, exhales, keeping the rhythm calm, using the moment to gather his thoughts.

"It was nice, yes," Graham enunciates the last word heavily, careful to keep his phrasing as neutral as he can, "To have someone around, that I was able to have breakfast with." Graham feels a little flighty, has to break Dave's gaze, looking beyond the back of the sofa, out of the window. The cloudscape beyond is low, a large swathe undulating and smooth, luminous cornflower of the early morning now having moving into a more steely grey where the cover's deepest. The rest is paler, ragged edges fading into the anaemic winter sky. The street-lamp switched off at some point, so the total light, though greater, is cooler, bereft of the sodium yellow cast lent by it.

Graham glances at Alex, briefly. He's unsettlingly quiet. The muscle of his jaw bunches periodically, when he's not got the two-thirds gone cigarette between his lips. His eyes are shut, but Graham can see them moving beneath, in quick saccades. He's thinking, visualising.

"That's good." Dave sounds vaguely ponderous, like he's thinking about something else beyond their current conversation, bringing his hand up to his neck again, massaging at his trapezius, where the shoulder meets the neck. "Blimey, he was heavy." Dave says it more to himself, voice pitched chipper, seemingly trying to stem the awkwardness that's settling heavily in the room.

Graham brings his cigarette up in a small motion, looking guardedly at Alex, then over at Dave. He lifts a leg, planting his heel on the seat of the chair, hugging his arms around it, left hand locked around his elbow. His hand's close to his face, smoke drifting close by, and he bites at the nail of his thumb, impatient, a bit worried. He wants them to resolve this, needs to clear the air.

"Look, all that happened is he woke up, had a cup of tea, a smoke, washed his face, and borrowed that top of mine. Cause his was bloodstained, if you remember." Graham nods to himself, happy with how he articulated it. "He said he'd try washing mine from yesterday, but I doubt it'll get anywhere."

Alex rolls his head to the right, still leant back on the sofa, balefully stares at Graham. "And that's it? Nothing else happened?" Graham's a little taken-aback: he sounds disappointed.

"Yes - of course that's it." He takes a drag, exhaling in a slow, steady stream, an unkind smile curling his lips. "Now you sound like you want there to be more." The remains of smoke leave his lips in misty tatters, accompanying the lazy insidiousness of his tone. "Jealous?"

Alex sits up, shaking his head at him, looking unimpressed, redirecting his attention to the burnt-out stub between his fingers. "Fuck, where's your ashtray?"

"In my room. It's why we used plates." Graham waves his hand in the general direction of the doorway, in lieu of giving verbal assent. Alex has already made his way to the door before Graham's stomach swoops low, like he's falling. Alex is gonna see the page, and knowing him, he'll bring it up. Graham attempts to quell the surge of nerves throughout him with cold logic. The number is purely for the retrieval of his clothes, and nothing else. Absolutely nothing else.

Graham fixes his eyes on the cigarette, watching the edge of the white paper burning down in an uneven ring. Alex's stop near the bed is audible. The silence almost works to represent his probable surprise. And then his steps sound again, paces more swift. He appears at the doorway, in Graham's periphery, leaning against it, slim, and debonair. "Hey, Gra?" He waits to be acknowledged by both of them, before pulling the page out from behind him. "What's this, then?" Really, he sounds more teasing than anything, now. It's a fine line with Alex.

Graham rolls his eyes, firing a look at Dave, one which he hopes conveys blasé irritation, instead of the jittery fluster lying just beneath his skin. His cheeks feel as though they've heated - caught - but he doesn't lift his hand to his cheek to check, doesn't want to incriminate himself. "I will need to pick up my clothes at some point - you do realise that, right? Damon got me to write it down." Shit. He manages to keep his voice steady, marginally aloof, with a hint of sarcasm, hoping his eyes don't go wide. A minor miracle.

Alex smirks, but, quite surprisingly says nothing further on the issue. "That's nice of him." There's an absolute wealth of meaning and implication lurking beneath. And honestly, Graham can't bring himself to criticise him for it. He could've put his foot down, said no to taking the number; Alex knows as well as Graham that his top was beyond salvaging, and the one he left for Damon to wear is easily replaceable, not worth the time Graham would be taking to pick it up. There's an ulterioriority to the whole affair, he will admit, on both sides. His slip goes unacknowledged.

Graham hums lowly under his breath in grudging agreement, for show more than anything, facing Dave as Alex struts back across the room, mood much improved. He puts down the ashtray with a definite clunk on the table, lying it on the side of the page so it's weighed down, crushing the butt of his cigarette into the dish. Graham guesses he may as well put his out too, uncurls himself from his pose on the chair, twists at the waist so he can lean behind him in a wide sweep with his left hand to drop it down.

Dave still looks like he's elsewhere, calculating something in his mind. Even when Alex plonks himself back onto the sofa, and begins regaling them of some women he's found particularly attractive in his place of work, Dave seems distracted. But happily, Graham's situation seems to leave the conversation. It means Graham's free to muse over it, let the other two steer the discussion as he nods, holding his gaze mostly at his hands or arms, the texture and weave of his jeans, eyes unfocused.

At some point, Graham stands to make them some drinks. He wants a distraction, something to mean he doesn't have to talk at all. In all honesty, Alex leaving would make this a lot easier. Graham trusts Dave to talk with about this sort of thing - they both have experience with this, to some extent. He's not sure whether he'll have the chance to, though. He passes the mugs to them, smiling slightly in response when they break from speaking to thank him.

\---

They pass the time pleasantly. It's nearly time for lunch before Graham knows it, though the sun has managed to burn through much of the cloud cover, appearing as a luminous, sharply-edged disc. Dave looks at his watch, checking it against the clock on Graham's wall automatically. "I suppose we'd best be off, then. Busy later?"

"Not tonight. Pub quiz on, or something. They don't need me." Graham stands to accompany him to the doorway, hearing Alex sigh heavily behind them as he levers himself up.

"Dave, give me a minute. Gra, do you mind me using your bathroom?"

"Not at all."

As soon as the lock turns, Dave's look turns more intense. He modulates his voice low and soft, so as to be inaudible to Alex. "You're okay, though?"

"Well, yeah." Graham matches his words, feeling oddly like Dave's his confidant. It takes a bit of courage to look up and meet his eyes properly, is relieved that he doesn't seem too judgemental, more like he's searching to make sure that Graham's being sincere.

"Good, good." He places his hand heavily on Graham's shoulder, attention inadvertently flicking away at the sound of the toilet flushing, before he looks back again. "Come round to mine later for tea, if you want to talk some more. Say, six?" Graham can feel a smile spreading, soft and slow. Even with how unsettled he is by his situation, how absurd it seems, he wants to be able to talk about it, articulate it and garner another, more removed point of view. He nods once, and they move apart to stand in relaxed silence at either side of the doorframe, for the few seconds it takes for Alex to unlock the door, and step out.

Graham opens his apartment, and wishes them a good rest of the day.

\---

Dave's residence is a good while away, enough of a distance to offer Graham yet more time to think. Not that he really needed much more.

The cloud has lingered through the day, leaving the air somewhat more temperate than the evening previous, but damp, and every so often there's a tease of precipitation, moisture on the wind. Graham's wrapped up, wearing a puffer jacket after learning from his mistakes yesterday, even though it's far less bitter. It mean that, by the time he gets to Dave's, he's ready to shuck the coat from his shoulders, even with his cheeks rosy and cold to the touch from exposure.

The lobby is fairly busy, a few groups heading out, couples holding hands. Graham curls his lip at some unabashed heavy petting going on, shaking his head to himself as he beelines the stairs. Dave's floor isn't far up the building - only a couple of flights - so Graham jogs, unzipping his coat and shrugging it off, gathering it to his chest in a tight bundle. His wallet chain hits his thigh in a regular rhythm, slightly syncopated. His steps are soft, even at speed, faint sounds fading into the background of indistinct speech and laughter.

He leaves the stairwell discretely. He's never liked this building, in all honesty. It unnerves him, leaves him slightly off-kilter. He's better when he's with Dave, and safe in his apartment, but making his way alone, he always feels vulnerable, pessimistic thoughts flitting through his mind.

The hallways is painted yellow, and the lighting exacerbates it. Graham's own flesh seems jaundiced, as he reaches out to knock firmly on Dave's door, flinching when he hears a door further down open. He hunches, and keeps his head down, looking with flighty eyes. He's relieved when Dave cracks the door open, reading him wordlessly, before ushering him inside. He knows Graham well. He follows him inside, smiling in thanks as Dave takes his coat and hangs it on the wall beside the doorway.

The space is the same, as always. Window on the wall across from the door, the space having similar dimensions to Graham's, slightly larger. Both their apartments are close to being generic facsimiles, except Dave's is marginally messier. His kitchenette runs the same length of the wall, same side in relation to the entrance. Even the table's basically in the same place. The only major difference is the sofa's position; instead of holding its back to the window, it's side-on, leaving space for his television. 

"What do you want to eat?" The television casts bluish light, picture flickering, image looking distorted from this shallow angle. The audio is barely perceptible, more a rush of white noise than much else, and partnered with the small screen, it means Graham can't easily identify what's on. He reaches back into his pocket for his wallet, pausing when Dave turns to him whilst getting plates out. "Don't worry about that mate, it's on me."

Graham grudgingly agrees and moves away his hand, moving slowly over to where Dave's stood. There's a selection of take away menus fanned on his table. He casts a critical eye over them, before giving up. He's hungry, just wants to eat. "I dunno, let's get pizza or something." He turns away and looks at the small, cuboid set, can more clearly see now that it's a documentary of some sort. You never know with Dave. Graham find himself marginally irked by the wavering scan-line working its way down on loop, skewing the image.

"You should really get that fixed, you know." He crosses his left arm over his stomach, cradling his right elbow, raising his hand up to worry the skin around his nails. Upon Dave looking at him quizzically, Graham loosely drops his hand at the wrist, indicating with the knuckles of his curled fingers the television.

Dave chuckles, not unkindly, lifting the leaflet for the Italian takeaway. "I'd rather save for something important." He looks up from the unfolded sheet. "Like renting the studio and the equipment." 

Fair enough. Lifts his chin, pressing his lips together, understanding what he means. "Just get me a Margherita. Ooh, maybe some garlic bread too." He meanders over to the sofa, sitting down heavily with a long exhale, elbows on his knees, forehead on the heels of his hands. His eyes are open, staring down at the threadbare, hideous, striped rug on the floor. He reaches down to untie his laces, pull his boots off, knees digging into his sides, just below his arms. He lets the sound of Dave's call wash over him, his already cut-glass accent sharpening as he settles into his telephone voice.

Tiredness is beginning to wash over him. The late night, early rise, and somewhat emotionally taxing day, all compounding. He's happy to be here, with someone whose company is undemanding, and not to be alone, left with his thoughts. Dave puts the handset down with a plasticky clack, bringing across a can of beer for each of them. "They say twenty minutes. Make it thirty-five by my estimate."

Graham accepts one, holds it up. "Cheers." He takes a sip, the taste passable. Dave snickers, necks a good third of his. The cool is welcome down Graham's throat, as is the metal, when he holds it against his temple, looking at Dave. "Dave?" A little subdued.

"Yeah?"

"What do I do?"

Dave sighs at that, frowning, eyes locked on the screen. His face is blue, and a pair of reversed images playing out on his glasses. "I don't think it's really my place to say."

"I'm not sure what I'm doing."

"What do you mean - flirting with a footballer? Plenty of people do that, have done that, will do that. And I'm sure a lot of them enjoy it." Dave looks at him, slightly condescending in his tone, but not nasty. "But look at you."

Graham quirks his lips in a thin smile, darting his eyes away as Dave resumes speaking, a little less affected, more neutral in tone. "The way I see it, you've got two... no, actually, you've got three options." He counts them off on his hand, first pressing down his thumb with his pointing finger. "One, you don't call him, don't interact with him ever again. That suits the vast majority of you, but you'll always wonder why. Besides, he could always come round to yours again, and I'm sure that'd defeat the point of your choice."

Graham scoffs, taking another sip. Dave's meticulous with his details. "The other two, then?"

"Okay, two: you call him, and arrange to pick up your clothes. That's it." Graham averts his gaze to read over the label of the can, averting his gaze, and feeling Dave's on him. He knows what's coming. "And, thirdly, finally..."

"You don't need to tell me what it it." He flicks at the tag of the can with his nail. "I don't know if I can do that - let myself do that. I police myself so heavily in that regard..."

Dave leans back in the sofa, silent for a good while. Graham takes the opportunity to finish much of his beer, pressing his fingertips against the sides, feeling the flex of the thin metal, its resistance and give.

"Graham, you don't know what I was going to say. Yes, if I'd been advising Alex - something I don't think I've ever had to do - of course he'd want me to tell him to go and have sex. That's how he is." Graham's steered back into the sofa gently by Dave, who turns his torso to face him, hand on the back of the sofa. "But you're not like that." He feels piercing eyes flit over him, taking in his body language, reading him to see how receptive he is. "Tell me what it was like: what he was like."

Where to begin. Although, this is what he wanted; he wanted to be able to talk over and analyse their interaction. "Well... It was nice." Graham's surprised by how bashful he sounds, how soft his voice is pitched. He clears his throat, shifts in his seat. "We just talked about stuff."

Dave clicks his tongue, a smile trying to escape, so he turns away from Graham. "You know, he might not be as bad as you're determined to think he is. They fucking play-up shit all the time during the game, why wouldn't he exaggerate his arrogance, especially if he thinks it protects him?" Dave gets up, taking Graham's empty can with him, to fetch fresh ones.

He clenches his jaw, looking off to the side, so he can just see a sliver of the city from behind the curtains. Dave knocks about in his periphery. He doesn't want to admit Dave could be right. Even considering what the other man has said, and how well-reasoned it is, no matter how much Graham wants some sort of ongoing connection with the man, just for how special it is, how unique and rare to have that chance, something about it just feels wrong to him. Like he's taking advantage.

A knock on the door stuns Graham from his reverie. He locks eyes with Dave, who shoots him a meaningful look. "Well look at that. I guess it just shows that being overly critical isn't always a good thing." He grins cheekily at Graham, who rolls his eyes, before answering the door.

\---

Graham leaves Dave's with a bit of a buzz from the beer. It's too weak for much more than a blurring of experience, so other than a fraught escape from the tower block, Graham's journey home is mostly pleasant. The wind's kicked up, and there's proper rain now, but it's light, and his coat's hood does a good job of protecting him.

He avoids thinking about much more than the pizza, the rest of his discussion with Dave, trying and succeeding, for the most part, to stay away from that one particular topic his brain seems intent on hyper-fixating on. Every time he tries to reason it to himself, he feels like throwing up another wall, another reason why he can't possibly allow himself to see Damon as anything more than some two dimensional farce.

And even though Dave hasn't said anything, he's sure they both know a heft portion of his issue is pride. He doesn't want to be seen as a hypocrite, or to acknowledge he's been wrong. And to protect himself from that, he's best severing ties. It can be one of those stories he tell to his friends in twenty years, one that receives clamorous responses, but none of them really believe. I had Damon Albarn in my bed, and I didn't once want to fuck him. Graham snorts, an ugly sound, caught by the wind.

Once he arrives back, it's to a silence he can appreciate. He's tired, feels a little lonely, but also surprisingly content. Sometimes he needs time for himself. He hangs his coat up, floating through his apartment. He draws the blinds, then heads to his bedroom to do the same, and to get changed. It's still a surprise to walk in, and to know that less than a day ago, there was another body in it.

He undresses briskly, pulling his proper pyjamas on, hoping he'll feel more removed, and comfortable, when he settles in. He nips to the bathroom, cleans his teeth, before edging back into his room, and slinking into the sheets. Graham feels caught, somehow, with the duvet's edge resting across his cheek, just below his eye, lying on his right side. He pauses, then reaches forward to switch the lamp off on his bedside table. The action rolls him into the pillow slightly. He can smell the cologne, still. He hovers like that, just breathing in the dark, eyes wide, a wash of cold down his spine.

Graham slowly draws back, huddling under the covers, and shuts his eyes tightly, willing on sleep.


	6. Law 6: The Other Match Officials

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, a rating change! It was going to happen sooner or later, but it really has occured quicker than I expected. I started this chapter last week, got 1k in, and realised it was wildly out of character. So I scrapped the whole thing and started afresh, but not without a little bit of procrastination, for which I apologise immensely. I do love writing, it has to be said, but there's so much I want to articulate, whilst having an end goal in mind, and it does get a bit frustrating. But yeah, the wheels are properly being set in motion now, yay!
> 
> Any mistakes made here are mine. Unbetaed.

Graham wakes with a curl of heat low in his belly, inhaling the barest hint of masculine scent where his face is pressed into the pillow. He's half-hard already, thoughts ticking by distractedly, and he tenses his stomach and legs to prop himself up slightly from the mattress, moaning, unabashed, at the sensation elicited as the material of his briefs brushes against his cock with the movement. He yanks his his tee up, in an uncoordinated flail of his arm, left hand snaking across his bared stomach, as he trails his right hand teasingly down his abdomen, and under his boxers.

His shifting draws cooler air from the apartment to flood under the sheets, prompting shivers to roll down his spine, compounding as he starts stroking, at first, lightly, but then he increases the pressure of his grip, adds a little twist, hips moving in time, in desperate little twitches as he holds himself up. He imagines a rough hand on him, a presence at his back, a partner hovering there, pleasuring him, lips brushing against his nape, and the little frisson of guilt he feels at the flash of dirty-blond in his mind twists with the pleasure, urges him forwards.

Pre-come slicks his fingers, but his muscles are trembling from holding himself up like that, and in a burst of lust-induced brazenness, Graham extricates himself from the confines of his bed, stalking briskly to the shower, uncomfortable but single-minded. He sets the shower to just below scalding, the type of heat that seeps into your bones, and strips briskly as he waits for it to warm up. When the water's loosing steam into the air, humidity rising, Graham steps in, hunching his shoulders and gasping open-mouthed at the temperature.

He tips his head back into the spray, encircling his erection again, firmly. His skin runs with rivulets, and he shakes his head to clear water from his face, reaching with his left hand to push back the sodden wad of his hair from where it plastered to his forehead. He strokes steadily, ruthlessly, bracing himself against his left arm, palm splayed on the tiled wall. His mind's eye conjures imagery, flitting splinters of both experience, and overactive imagination, mingling to provide Graham with a kneeling figure, vertebrae visible under golden skin, the subtle work of muscles beneath it, dishevelled hair.

He grips his thigh, imagining the figure doing it for stability, with a coy edge, brushes his thumb over the head of his cock and imagines lips there instead. The warmth of the water, he supposes, is a suitable illusion of body heat. Graham bucks his hips, feeling close, unsteady on his feet, stomach swirling. He thrusts into his fingers, breaths ragged, until he comes with a choked sound, a wave of pleasure sweeping through his veins.

Graham takes a while to rearrange his thoughts, staring hard at a line of grout between some tiles. He holds his right hand level with his waist, come sticky on his fingers, until he moves it into the water's path, unseeing, as it's washed away in uneven patches. Oh fuck. The guilt's raising its head, now that Graham's mind is less clouded. The more he tries to avoid thinking about it, the more he pictures Damon, his lips, and his figure.

With a noise of distaste, Graham pulls away from the wall, washing his hand completely, then setting about cleaning himself brusquely, dispassionately, angry at himself. He scrubs at his scalp, using his nails alongside shampoo, as though the action alone could exorcise his memory of the last five minutes. It's all he'll be able to think about when Damon opens the door to him. With an irascible snarl, Graham washes his hair even more thoroughly.

When he's suitably clean, feels closer to being human, and less like he's made an unforgivable transgression - now, only just a hideous one - Graham switches off the shower and steps out, cool air washing over him, shudder rippling down him. The afterglow has been thoroughly disappointing, dashed by his own neuroses, concerns. And it's not exactly a frivolous worry, either. He knows who he was fantasising about, and now knowing him in reality, being soon to meet him again - a veritable stranger, one Graham resolutely is irked by - means he's stepped across an unspoken but very evident boundary. He doesn't know if he'll be able to look him in the eye. Fuck.

Maybe he shouldn't call? No, bad idea. He needs to call, needs to nip the situation in the bud. Graham nods to himself resolutely, snatching up his towel to dry himself off, before tying it around his waist, picking up the clothes he shirked, and returns to his bedroom in a far less bold manner.

\---

Graham opts for a mostly quiet day, going about his business with typical caution, but now, with additional, unneeded anxiety hazing the back of his mind. After a pathetic breakfast, where he eyed the door to his bedroom for a good long while, Graham gathers himself, clears the table, washes up, then paces determinedly to his room. He throws open the curtains, letting in the light of another wan day. The cloud-cover is thicker today, the sun's presence only known through the odd backlit luminosity of the entirety of the grey sheet, rather than its disc being visible, light localised.

Whilst stripping the sheets, Graham glances down out of the window, notes the singular lamp-post rocking in the wind. Fucking great. He's got work later, and isn't really looking forward to traipsing home with the equivalent of a sail on his back. At that, his mood worsens tenfold, an amalgamation of mounting frustrations.

He grabs a couple of plastic bags, stuffing the sheets in, collecting his washing and throwing that in too, then chucks in a half-used bottle of detergent for good measure, pushing everything into a rucksack for ease of carrying. Before he sets off, he swipes his cigarettes from the counter, and the box clatters hollowly in response. Cussing, Graham adds a trip to the newsagents to his itinerary, withdrawing a cigarette, lighting it, and slipping it between his lips. He pulls on his boots, his leather jacket, knowing he'll be cold for the first while, but he'll warm up quickly. He wrenches the overstuffed backpack over his shoulder, looping his other arm through the strap, then locks up after himself.

Once outside, Graham shivers. The cold cuts through him, wind having enough of a vindictive edge to make him wonder if he should've worn his warmer coat. He just reminds himself he'll heat up with the effort, and then he'd be stifled. He paces rigidly, strides long, to hasten his journey, and his mind locks on a song he's heard on the radio, jaunty and irritating, the perfect tempo for his steps.

The walk itself isn't too far, the premises perfectly situated for easy access for as many of the students from his college as possible, and as such, the place is nice, machinery relatively well-kept, and in good working order, so Graham never feels squeamish there like he might otherwise, and his clothes have always come out clean and seemly. It's early, and a weekday, so he's lucky to find two adjacent machines empty. He stuffs the sheets in one, the more general stuff in the other, making ginger eye contact with the supervisor, just making sure they've seen the machines he's chosen, that they've registered his presence. He adds detergent to the drawers, slots them back into place, and counts out the prerequisite coinage required, feeling the heft of it in his hand, before carefully pushing the coins into the slots. With both washes started, Graham feels mildly productive, and almost like he's just exorcised some malevolent presence from his flat.

That's not to say that his mind feels any clearer. In fact, his blood curdles in his veins with the frequent flashes of memory. There's something addictive about the feeling of the taboo, and Graham's not happy. With a sigh, Graham glances down at his watch, takes in the time: newsagents round the corner ought to be open. He waits until the water fills the dark void within both machines, seeping up like murky lake-water - clothes slopping from side to side like there's a corpse within, somehow - before he shakes himself, berating his pathological need to skew the world through a rather twisted lens.

Mindful of the time left on the wash cycle, Graham easily hefts the lighter rucksack over his shoulder, not bothering with both straps, and sets out to buy some more cigarettes. It's a brief excursion, but, if anything, the wind is more cutting, canny and twisting as it seeps under his jacket and up his back, leaving him wracked with fresh tremors. His hands are icy cold, finger less responsive than they should be. Real winter weather's definitely on the way. Graham sniffs, his nose chilled. The little shop is a welcome relief, and pushing open the door reveals a decently cosy space, heater on in the corner to bolster the temperature. He meshes his hands together, stepping towards the counter, before freezing.

Fuck. He shouldn't have been surprised, not really. It's jarring though, seeing that face arrayed across the front pages of multiple newspapers in lurid colour on the rack that spans a good metre. Damon's the front page, and each tabloid has him from subtly different angles, each image clamouring to be the worst. On most, he looks veritably unhinged, caught in the moment after surprise, when a spark of anger begins to break through, before one tamps down on it. So his eyes have a wild light to them, dark brows lowering into a frown, mouth an unhappy slash, or beginning a rictus grin. His hair's messy and still drying from when he washed his face, the bruise is an ever more livid stain across his cheek, and Graham's top looks particularly threadbare, caught by telescopic lenses.

It's enough to make Graham want to weep, stood there in a little corner shop. He's too far gone, already, after one meeting. Graham throws his vision to either side, keeping track of the few people milling around, taking time to compose himself. He pushes up his glasses, rubbing at the corners of his eyes and exhaling at length, unsettled. He scans the length of the display, slanderous headlines jumping forth in bold text, and it hurts, just a bit. It shouldn't. He's both relieved, and dismayed, to note a particularly pernicious tabloid having sold completely, already. He can only imagine what the headline and promised details within must have been.

Most call drugs, some a liaison gone wrong - something Graham doesn't even want to know what their spin on it is - and a lot of them say a drunken bar fight. And well, yes, that sort of was the case, but there's an essential detail missing, that being how Damon was attacked, and the brawl stopped in its tracks. Graham angrily works his way to the more intellectual papers, the ones where headlines tend to have more than a pun and bare-faced lies in them, and is slightly relieved. One of them has Damon in profile, taken - Graham assumes - a few seconds after the others, when the footballer had had a chance to compose himself. He looks weary, shadows under his eyes, and slightly pained, skin tight at the corner of his eye. The bruise is fully on display, in the centre of the photo. Even with his face downcast, he manages to look noble.

Graham deliberates, flinching as someone draws level with him, huffing a humourless-laugh through their nose, as they stoop to grab a paper whose name makes his skin crawl. Instead, he just picks up the most humane one, stalking towards the counter haughtily, putting it down firmly, before his ego leaves him and he deflates, weakly requesting a packet of cigarettes from behind the counter, specifying the brand in a small voice. He draws his wallet from his pocket by the chain, pulling out a couple of quid with still-shaky fingers, having no issues just through pure force of will. To drop even one coin would've made him want to sink into the cheaply laid flooring.

The wait for the receipt is excruciating. He's aware of the other customer behind him; the ruffling pages skim across each other like dry whispers, dispassionate, and he feels their attention, the attention paid by people just wanting to move forward in a queue, and even though it's not specifically aimed at him, he feels wary and uncertain. The last few days have been... strange.

With a thin smile, Graham offers his thanks, dropping the few coins of change he received into his wallet, and stuffing it back into his pocket, before gathering the box and folded paper to his chest, practically fleeing the shop.

\---

Graham whiles away his time in the laundrette by reading. He's consciously avoided pages on Damon, but every so often he finds himself trying to place together his features as he found them on the cover, then as they were when sat to a table, and then as they were softened by drink, and apology. And when that happens, Graham leans sideways, pulling the pages in his left hand taut and further towards the ceiling, so he can catch a glimpse, finding the image already too familiar, but like his own face; every time he averts his gaze, he's left unsure of some very particular detail.

So it's a bit of a fitful sit down he gets for the next twenty minutes, glancing between timers, the fragile sheets of paper fluttering in his hands, and the words upon them, reading but not really comprehending. A few times, he rereads a paragraph, only to find he hasn't take in one iota of meaning. He continues the futile action, growing increasingly irked at himself, until he flicks through to some of the lighter articles, ones on films and albums and shows. He finds himself quite taken with one album and its review, the artwork, imagines holding the sleeve in his hands, scouring liner notes for any and all information available to him. He's slightly concerned with the growth of Compact Discs. Sure, he likes technology, but there's an undeniable romance to vinyl.

He muses for a while, and then his thoughts get entwined in music. He needs to plan his set for later on, something easy and listenable to the ear, something he ideally would skirt from, but he gets a decent enough pay that he doesn't mind too much. There's only so harsh you can make a purely acoustic guitar sound, without sounding like you can't play at all. He can't wait until their next studio session. Fuck, he's looking forward to it so much.

As soon as the washes are done, Graham takes advantage of the relatively quiet time to leisurely carry across the separate loads to driers, not hurrying like he normally would, humming under his breath, glad the machines hide his sound. He completes the second, slightly shorter wait, in much the same way, scanning through the newspaper idly, concentration fractured between that, the machines, and other customers, and their routines. He doesn't watch them, though, just uses his general awareness to keep tabs, mostly unintentionally, instinctually, paying little heed.

He gathers the sheets when they're dry, carrying them to the little table to fold them, retuning to get his clothes, too, and repeats. They're warm but rapidly cooling, but look pristine and satisfying with crisp folds. Graham shucks his bag from his shoulder, unzipping it, taking out the plastic bags, so he has somewhere clean to put them. And then his main chore of the day is done, and he feels a little like the wind's been pulled from his sails.

He lifts the rucksack back onto his shoulders again, trudging out, back into the elements. The air tastes cold, and he avoids breathing in through his nose, wary of the strange, sharp pain it could provoke. Mostly, Graham thinks about Damon's bruise, his guilt, and that he needs to entertain himself for a good portion of the day until work.

Oh, and the phone call he has to make.

\---

Once he's replaced the sheets, Graham agonises over the upcoming process for the rest of the day, and knows he'll be doing the same over the aftermath during work. That is, if Damon picks up. The situation's ridiculous. Graham fluffs up his hair, both hands moving raggedly over his scalp in frustration. He still has loads of time until the late afternoon, enough time to be productive, to sit down and freshen up his playing a bit, but instead he wastes it as fragmented bursts between each glance at the hands of the clock, how they inexorably circle further and further on.

Catastrophising isn't something he enjoys doing, and every time he realises how - if he were just to take a step back - inconsequential his actions are, and their repercussions, it makes him feel worse. Because he surely shouldn't be affixing the level of fatalistic thinking he quite often finds himself doing. In the grand scheme of things, it doesn't matter. Who cares if his call does get through to Damon? Who cares if it doesn't? God, even the action of mulling over it, and circling endlessly, is granting a moment which might take only a matter of seconds far too much power over himself.

Exhaling at length, Graham resigns himself to a cigarette, to quell his tapping fingers, give him a little bit of purpose for the next while. It's funny how, in the space of a handful of days, he's fallen back entirely on a habit he thought he'd mostly shaken.

By the arrival of four o'clock, he's switched the lights on inside already, sky gone black as pitch. The wind's kicked up more, and just as Graham thought, earlier in the week, there's a storm forecast. Nothing too big, just a typical winter system, high winds, and copious rain. He can hear it, hear the wind gathering far off in the calm, before it rushes by. He particularly hates trying to sleep at night when it's like this, because sometimes his mind won't quiet, and the wind catches his ears just as he begins to drift off. Hopefully he'll be shattered after work, although, his job isn't a particularly taxing one, so he isn't really optimistic.

And this is only the beginnings of the bad weather. There's a whole five days of it to come. Graham tuts, and it's concrete in the otherwise noiseless space. He finishes his cigarette, drifting to his feet, heading over to the phone, pausing at the table to stub out the butt, casting his eyes over the page, partially held by the ashtray. There's finality to the action, and Graham sets his shoulders, jutting his chin up higher, swiping briefly at the skin below his eyes with the side of his fingers, feeling his glasses bump against his knuckles, as he looks over the numbers. They might as well be etched in his mind, but he still carries the small, unassuming page with him.

The handset's plasticky in his hand, but the casing's sturdy enough that it's lasted him a good while. It's off-white, square, and the chord loops precisely. He's managed to keep it neat, and the coil hasn't been disrupted yet. He leans his hip against the counter, stomach feeling floaty and sick. He types in the numbers with his left index finger, holding the phone against his head and repeatedly adjusting, worried that he'll miss something vital in the call if he suddenly finds it uncomfortable on his ear during it.

He hears the dial tone, and swallows, the sound loud and wet, amplified by the device pressed hard against his ear, and he clenches his hand, feeling the slight give of the plastic, a small shift. He almost hopes Damon won't pick up, or that there'll be the deafening sound of a party in the background, a club, riotous, drunken laughter.

Damon picks up, not quick, not slow, just an average length of time after it started ringing. "Hello?" His voice is level, low, slight hint of suspicion, but after the day he's had, probably understandable.

It takes Graham a split-second to gather his voice. "Hello?" He's both shocked and unsurprised by the relative normality of the call, the lack of background noise. Damon's demolishing all of Graham's preconceived notions in quick succession. "It's... Graham."

"Hello, Graham." He can hear a slow smile in his voice. There's a soft, fricative sound, like he's straightening up from kneeling. "Honestly, I wasn't sure you'd call." He sounds cheeky, but there's enough of an edge of glibness to the facade, that Graham can tell the other man knows Graham's wary of him, doesn't really trust him. Graham laughs aloud, a small, harsh bark, like it's a joke, and Damon echoes it, sounding grateful. It hurts. It shouldn't.

"Yeah, I wasn't sure myself." He injects levity into his voice, even though he feels very little, and unclenches his left hand where it was curled in a fist against his thigh. Graham realises Damon was waiting for him to arrange a time - that's all the call was for, after all, and he called first - so he pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to ground himself even as he can see Damon stood, waiting, tapping his foot in his mind's eye. "Um... do you mind if I come round and get my top tomorrow evening, then? I don't think I have work..." He pivots on his foot, leaning and squinting at his calendar on the wall behind him. "No, I don't have work. Is that okay?"

"That's absolutely fine." He stops speaking, but the line between them feels taut, heavy, like there's something Damon wants to say, and something Graham's waiting for. But it never comes. Damon just sighs, lists off an address which sounds familiar, but he scrawls it down anyway, after a desperate hunt for a pen, swapping hands to hold the phone in place. "Does five suit you?" His voice sounds tight, clipped.

A little confused at the tone, Graham begins nodding, only to quickly realise it won't be seen. "Yeah, I can do that."

"Good."

"Yeah..."

"... Bye." Damon's put the phone down before Graham can respond, and irritation flashes up his spine as he pulls the handset away from his ear, looking at the patterns of the earpiece, and the receiver, recessed in plastic.

With a tut, Graham measuredly replaces it on the cradle. Barely two minutes, and he's managed to damage the fragile semblance of respect he was building of Damon.

\---

The wind's really gotten up by the time Graham leaves, and just as he predicted, it's a bit of a nightmare with his guitar across his back. He's buffeted, his fringe blowing about his face, having gotten long enough to trace the line of his brows. He adds it to a mental tally of things to do, as he trudges along, shoulders pulled close to his ears, head ducked, back curled, and his hands jammed into his jacket pockets. His strides are swift and long, desperate to cover ground.

Once he forces the heavy door open, warm, heavy air washes over him, smelling of greasy food and lager. His boots are easily heard as he crosses the floorboards, heading directly to his usual perch to set up. The space is mostly empty, being prepared for the next influx of customers. The small stage area is nicely isolated, with patrons looking for an evening meal being able to watch and listen to his playing, while rowdier crowds are kept in he adjacent area, nearer the bar.

He shucks his jacket from his shoulders, already more than comfortably warm, glasses fogged. He takes them off and sets them down carefully on the stool, unzipping his bag and lifting the guitar free by its neck, fingers clear of the strings, nudging the bag behind the chair with his foot. He pulls the strap of the guitar over his head, swipes his glasses from behind him, happy they've cleared of steam, and gets comfortable. The tuning was fine before he left, but he checks anyway. It wouldn't do to start playing, only to find he was out of tune.

Once suitably reassured, he carefully sets down his guitar, and heads down to the bar. He's tempted to buy a pint, something to soothe his nerves and give everything a pleasant blurriness, make him feel warm and light, but he pauses at the fresh memory of blood on his shirt. He's glad he was sober enough to make the right decisions that night. He meets the bartender's eye, and asks for water. He gets drinks free, which is a nice perk.

He carries it back with him, steps cautious so as not to spill anything over the edge. It gets a little precarious at times, but he slows his steps, takes his time, and arrives back with little spilt, except a small amount that puddles around the pads of his fingers. He leans in to take a long draught, feeling the harsh cool down his throat. His eyes water a little at its sharpness, but he licks the moisture from his lips, somewhat refreshed, and sets the glass down on the little table beside his stool, wiping the dampness of his hand, on his jeans. A drop traces down through the condensation, drawing a clear path thorough the haze. He readjusts the guitar and its strap, easing backwards onto the stool, ready to play.

The evening closes in with surprising readiness, and his thoughts are free to meander over the events of the day. It's odd to him, Damon's behaviour on the phone. For someone who presents himself so confidently - to the point of breathtaking arrogance - so much of the time, Graham's genuinely struggling to get a grasp of the real man; if indeed, he's getting that persona. And how would he even know if that were the case?

Graham shakes his head at himself, drily amused. Damon's behaviour on the phone is quite difficult to parse, though now he's not so sure insult was his intention, and really, he should just slip into the music, enjoy it, instead of risking getting distracted. That really wouldn't do.

By the time his set comes to a close, he's honestly managed to relax, something he hadn't banked on. It's the first time in a good few days. He's managed to ignore a great deal of events which really would've been detrimental to linger on too much, especially with work. As he packs up, air around him loud and hearty, filled with meshing discussion, he's struck a little by just how much of a relief the call's turned out to be, and just how unexpected it is.

He lifts his bag up, ducking under the strap, and adjusting its position until it rests comfortably. He clenches his hand around the strap, feeling the edges of the woven nylon dig into his palm. Leaving brings peace, yes, but the storm's setting in properly, beginning spatters of precipitation coming down in bursts blown ragged by the wind. He assumes the typical pose of someone caught in the elements in unsuitable clothing once again, shoulders hunched against the wind, fairly jogging, grimacing as his bag is pawed at by the wind. Honestly, he's glad he doesn't have work tomorrow, although there is the issue of travel. He may as well splurge on a taxi; off the top of his head, the address is on the other side of London, and besides that, he just doesn't want a trek through whatever calamitous weather is expected.

He keeps his forward progress going, absolutely freezing: he's so cold, the muscles of his abdomen are trembling, even as he walks. Thankfully, there are few cars out on the road, so whenever his path wavers - the wind ripping at him and his bag is vicious, particularly as he gets closer to the apartments, where roads widen and there's more exposure - his cheeks still burn in embarrassment, but he's a lot less concerned about having been witnessed. Even though it doesn't matter.

He's relieved to see the single spotlight marking the square courtyard, oscillating fitfully in the fierce gale. It's a night to batten down the hatches, to make oneself a cup of tea and watch telly, grimacing when the picture flickers. Graham doesn't have a television, but he does have his records. He crosses the flagging with hungry steps, sighing in relief once across the threshold, the sound shaky with his shivers. He opts for the stairs for the few floors he needs to ascend, to keep his body working, and to encourage warmth to seep into his flesh, flexing his hands in relief at the warmth.

The guitar bounces against his back as he bolts up them, two at a time, and he flattens his right palm to it, so that it stays in place, keeping him better balanced and preventing the hollow thumps of sound, amplified by the guitar itself. Arriving at his doorway allows him the opportunity to relax, and his shoulders slump from where they've been drawn up, tension draining, simply from the action. As he unlocks his door, he massages at his shoulder, still a bit achey from exertion, but rapidly improving. Shutting the door to behind him is welcome, although his stomach does drop a little upon noticing the page, square in the centre of his table: unavoidable, intentionally so.

He heads into his room, once more removing his guitar from the bag, and placing it reverently on its stand. He yawns, and it's a drawn-out affair, everything catching up with him in a single rush. He sheds his jacket and changes quickly into his pyjamas, enjoying the warmth of them, and of his apartment, before leaving to go over to the kitchenette, quickly whipping up a cup of tea. The journey back to his room isn't as fraught as when he was carrying the glass of water earlier, the mug being filled just right, so when it sloshes, it misses the rim.

He places it on his bedside table, flitting over to his record player. After a small amount of deliberation, he decides upon what he wants to listen to. Something a little more soothing than his usual fare, less organic sounds and more electronic. He sets the volume low, and the crackling of the vinyl is subtly audible, along with the hum of the turntable. He slips into bed, legs drawn up to his chest, fresh, mildly smelling sheets gathered around him, tea cradled lightly between his hands, balanced on his knees. He removes his glasses, making a small noise of satisfaction, taking the chance he has to settle for a short while before his sleep, hearing the wind gathering outside.


	7. Law 7: The Duration of the Match

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ran away with me, hence the delay... It's 8.7k. I'm conflicted about it, but hopefully it fits alright. Then again, I'm comflicted about most of what I post.
> 
> Also, timescale-wise, I'm envisaging this as taking place in 1995, when Damon was at peak ethereal. Anyways, this is unbetaed, and is guarenteed to have mistakes, but I hope you enjoy!

The moment he's awake, he's aware. Of his plans for the day, of how - after less than half a day - he'll never, ever be obliged to see Damon again. And there's trepidation threading through his veins, at the thought of the awkward, halting conversation he'll be having on a celebrity's doorstep, just for an old tee he didn't really want back in the first place. He flinches at the thought, seeing himself clutching at niceties, sounding dull, and so unbelievably average as to be entirely forgettable. Even in all this - selfishly - he wants to be remembered. But doesn't everyone?

He untangles himself from his sheets, leaning his elbows on raised knees, and burying his face in his palms, feeling the heat of them on the skin around his eyes. His duvet's been kicked into a flurry through the night. He can't shake the feeling of having had a nightmare, pulse up - though coming down - and it compounds with the sick feeling he gets in his stomach every time he remembers what's coming. To see him again... Can he do that? Can he go back to being entirely unremarkable after all this. Two days, and an evening. That's all it took for Damon to sink his claws in. He can see the how addiction works, whether it be to fame or experience or substance. He's hooked.

Graham laughs aloud in a short, sharp burst, then recoils at the sound, surprised. Outside, it's bleak - he can hear it, hear the wind bearing down, rain falling in uneven rhythms with the wont of it - and he prepares himself for a day indoors, plenty of time to shore up defences, truss up a semblance of an acceptable personality, and hopefully remain unfazed by an apparently unconscious lip bite, or whatever manner of torture Damon unwittingly doles out. God knows Graham doesn't need to embarrass himself on a doorstep in bad weather.

At the same time, he can't help but look forward to it, just a little. He's anticipating their final meeting, and every so often, when he does lose himself in reverie, he breaks free of it with a smile on his face, the corner of his lips curling, not entirely kindly. He knows Damon fancied him, just a little. He finds himself wanting him to hurt with it. And then Graham kicks himself, shame rushing through him. What, it wasn't enough to fantasise about him sexually - now he wants to lead him on? Fucking hell.

Graham growls, a low, angry sound in the back of his throat, and he tears his duvet off him in one brisk, emphatic movement, chilled by the flat's cool air, swinging his legs clear of the mattress, and hopping off. He stalks to his radiator, skin pimpling in the chill, kneels and inspects the heat setting. Finally time to switch to winter settings. This storm - the first proper one of winter - has brought the arctic with its low. He adjusts the dial, then moves to a stand smoothly, tapping the backs of his knuckles against the metal around the inlet, only moving away when he feels warm water seeping in.

He dresses with intent, disgust at himself nipping at his heels. Slim jeans, dark ones, ones he saves for the odd occasions where he and Dave acquiesce to being dragged to a club by Alex. He pairs it with a long-sleeved top, striped and close-fitting, enjoying the increase in warmth he receives. Like this, he can better justify it to himself - he's merely dressing for the weather. Even though he knows that's not the sole reason, or even the main reason. It's weird, this sudden feeling of wanting to be seen, admired. He knows he has a decent figure, even if it does make him feel self-conscious and lumbering a great deal of the time. But the fact that he's beginning to understand some of Alex's mindset is disconcerting.

He draws his curtains, frowning at the particularly dreary sight he's met with, his own reflection ghostly in the glass. His glasses are stark on his face, framing his eyes severely. Rivulets run down the panes, some in slow, snaking paths, drawing further droplets along until they grow too heavy, and streak downwards. They're quickly replaced, wind ferocious, rain unrelenting. He turns away with a sigh, movement mirrored, faint in the glass.

Breakfast is an understated affair. Tea, a bowl of Wheatabix, doused in warm milk, which melts swiftly into a cloying, sopping paste in his bowl. He only really gets a few spoonfuls in before it begins its descent into mulch, and by then, he's not hungry enough to continue. He pushes the bowl away from himself dejectedly, and it skitters across the table an inch or two, spoon clattering on the edge. Graham sits back in his seat, feet planted shoulder width apart, posture poor. His back's curled, chair a familiar, just about tolerable, pressure on his spine.

Graham reaches languidly for his mug, raising his eyebrow at a particularly vicious gust outside. There's a certain moroseness this kind of weather brings out in him, along with an ennui usually bad enough to render him listless for a good week or so, but knowing exactly what is yet to occur, means Graham's stuck in a sensation of limbo between gloom and anticipation. It makes him antsy and withdrawn. It fucking sucks.

He takes a sip, barely, skimming the surface of the tea with his lip so he doesn't scald his tongue, savouring the little addition of heat on his teeth. It cools quickly, and he swallows. It's easy to make his way through the drink, like that: brief mouthfuls. Idly, it strikes him that today is as good a day as any to get some more of his portfolio completed - indeed, given his disinclination for anything much else today, it'll probably be the only way he can keep himself from wanting to climb the walls.

It does grant him a purpose, though, buoying him to stand and clear up after himself, complete some vague housekeeping, and finish getting ready. Toothpaste cools his mouth, so the water he drinks afterwards stings sharp on his teeth, leaving him wincing. He notes down a couple of things he needs to buy when he's next out - milk, bread, better cereal: the like. It's odd to think that life will resume normality after today. This is just a brief, bizarre happenstance in his life, and he'll be beyond it so soon, buying groceries, earning money, completing his qualifications - this is just a momentary taste of that most sweetest thing. In years to come, he'll reminisce.

The flat's somehow gloomy, lit from within. Outside, with the weather as it is, there's meagre light, and the illumination provided by filaments trapped in glass is an imperfect substitute. It just lacks an element that Graham can't put his finger on, and never has. Maybe he just misses the blue of the sky, already. He returns to his room, gathers his sketchpad, and a selection of pencils of varying hardnesses, some barely touched, others getting close to requiring replacement, and plonks himself down on the sofa, legs curled under himself.

As always, he feels out the shape of what he wants to draw in short jerks of shape, tracing it out above the page before he commits. The lead's soft against the grain of the page, sound hushing, calm. Before long he's working on a semblance of an eye; gaze clear and sharp, eyelashes long, naturally so. It's in profile, as though seen from the side, hooded, lid continuing a little beyond the corner. But the look is intent, completed with a prominent brow-bone, a faint suggestion of a nose, and a dark eyebrow. The look is one of focus, and a little displeasure: this could be a penalty awarded to the other team.

Graham stops, stares at it, sighs; it's not even cryptic, barely stylised. But it's so good, he can't bear to rip the sheet out. He just flips to the next page, beginning on various wireframe poses, exaggerated gestures, limbs held wide and sweeping. He enjoys this, implementing grace into lines without having to complete painstaking details. They're rough, feel mobile and alive. He'd be lying if he didn't say this one one of his favourite disciplines of sketching, but also, this really doesn't contribute much to his actual project. He really needs to make up some ground on it, but he's been feeling a decided lack of impetus to really work on it lately. He's having doubts on his envisaged final piece - it feels naive and clichéd to him, now, after the idea first seeming fresh and interesting - and with the general air of competency he feels surrounded by in every class, he's struck with doubt, stomach sinking, feeling lost and out of his depth, increasingly at sea.

He glances at the clock, sinking back into the sofa in stunned amazement. He always gets lost in drawing, painting even more so. It's nearly time for lunch, less than an hour left before he normally would, so stretches his arms, raising them above his head, yawning and enjoying the little shiver of muscles flexing in his sides and arms, eyes screwed shut. He blinks them open, a little surprised at how his mood's lifted a little, just from that small action. He deposits the spiral-bound pages and lifts himself clear from the soft cushions, exerting a little effort with his arm to aid himself. He notes how the ache's barely there, now, just a half-pleasurable dull burn around his shoulder and bicep.

He makes himself more tea, carrying it over to the sofa, stepping up onto it before hunkering down, keeping the mug steady, legs crossed, elbows brushing his knees as he leans to place it down on the floor, precisely, perfectly. Released from the trance of drawing, he takes a minute to sit back, slouching, hands in his lap. Outside, the storm's still raging, baring down on the country with barely mistakable rage. It seems almost fitting, an omen, a warning. And still, he'll push his luck. Is it selfish to want to be remembered?

He tuts at himself, sinking further into the embrace of the sofa, then pouts. He brings his hand to his face, worrying at a hangnail in idle contemplation. He feels slightly removed from his circumstances, advantaged as he is with time, before he really does need to concern himself with his conduct. He's finding it far easier to separate his fantasising from conscious thought than he expected, and it slicks his stomach with guilt. He never pegged himself as naturally duplicitous, but perhaps that's exactly why he didn't - he's even fucking able to trick himself.

Graham throws his head back carelessly, staring up at the blandly painted ceiling unseeingly, and when he swallows, he can feel his muscles working under his skin, feel them struggle against the constriction. He almost feels the need to raise his head, ease the pressure, but he doesn't, and the sensation is only momentary, abates quickly. Fuck it, he'll eat a bit early - he's hungry enough as it is, after his paltry breakfast, and he's certain that sometimes he falls into depressive thinking when he's hungry.

A sandwich is quick and easy to throw together, and he begins eating it as he walks back to his perch, making himself comfortable as he sits back down, scanning over his sketches. There are a couple he really likes, loves the dynamism of, and a few that are mediocre at best, where he just missed a vital component of form and shape. But he can see room for improvement, and the fact he's not flogging himself for his mistakes is a good thing. Given how little he's actually been drawing - his last few bursts of inspiration have been abstract attacks on canvas, streaks of paint laid in haphazard strokes, like spilt oil - they're fairly good. And that he can recognise that, and forgive himself for that, is a fairly big thing. He's not entirely sure where that mercifulness came from.

He makes his way through the sandwich quickly, quite content, humming to himself, little fragments of tune he, Alex, and Dave, seem to always have had, things they riff against frequently when they play together. They could practically be songs, if they had the time, money, and vocalist, but sadly, though Graham can sing, and Alex can certainly take a stab at them, his voice has never really suited it, and he wouldn't feel confident laying it down on a tape. There's something so vulnerable about offering up a part of yourself like that, so while he's happy enough to break into song around his friends, recording it is just a step too far down a road he doesn't know if he wants to follow.

He finishes the last of his meal, rubbing his fingers and thumb together over the plate, to clear them of crumbs. His tea's a suitable temperature now, and he balances the plate in his lap, leaning forward to lift his cup carefully with his fingertips until it's about level with his knees, swapping his grip so his hands are clasped around it, the heat pleasant and soothing.

Once done, he sets both the plate and mug down again, less measuredly this time, so they clink against each other as he does. He wants to draw more complexly, thinks it'll keep him occupied for a good while longer, before he's too nervous to do anything more than watch the clock...

Those eyes... fuck.

Graham shakes his head, his stomach dipping like he's missed that there's one last step. He rakes through the selection of pencils at his side, scrabbling at the HB one when he finds it, embossed golden lettering glinting as he lifts it. Something tranquil, and detailed; something that'll take up his attention for a decent amount of time. He thinks of flow, and he thinks of the ocean.

He imagines a crescent-shaped bay, a pebbled beach, rocks sweeping out into the fray, waves rolling in, frothing and livid. It's bleak, in a beautiful way, severe and stark against an oppressive dark sky, bruised purple, and he sketches it as well as he can, tries to articulate it wholly in grey strokes of graphite. It's mostly rough, relying just as much on suggestion as complete representation, but it takes up his attention well enough for him to get lost in the scene. He only completely draws away when he feels hunger gnawing at him again, and by then, the picture's mostly wrought. He's never been good at realism in landscape, if he's honest, but atmosphere he can get. It's almost as though the weather outside has bled through, staining the page.

Graham presses his forearm to the softer flesh beneath his ribcage, quelling its complaints, and he shifts uncomfortably, uncoiling himself, trying to jig his legs and get blood flowing through them again. He looks at the clock and freezes, feeling his heartbeat against his ribs. Fuck, three-fifty. He needs to call a taxi now, if he wants to be getting the whole way across London in time to get there for five, given rush-hour will strike in the midst of travelling... Why does it matter when he gets there, though, other than for observing societal customs, to be polite. Surely, if all he's doing is picking up a top, Damon won't mind him being late.

In the midst of standing up and walking to the phone, he's struck with the mental image of Damon, at home, with a partner. His mind automatically projects a girlfriend, but even if they had been male, he would've blanched. He chokes, keeps his strides purposeful and intent, typing in the number for the taxi company that he has noted on a post-it beside his calendar, berating himself internally.

He manages to make the call successfully, if a little breathlessly, stumbling over a few words, but ultimately it goes without any issues. He clatters across to grab his jacket - leather, looks good, he won't be out in the cold for long - and his boots, barely loosening them, so he has to frantically tug them on, hissing as his thumb's momentarily trapped. He leaps to grab his keys, feeling nervy and wild, sick to his stomach and enjoying it just a little too much. He takes in his apartment in one quick sweep - the sketchpad and pencils scattered on the sofa, the address he jotted down, but as predicted, isn't necessary, the curtains and blinds still open, and his reflection staring back at him, glass like a black mirror. It'll be cold when he gets back, with the ferocity of the weather. He's best off taking care of it now, so he doesn't regret it. Forward thinking is essential.

He moves swiftly, keeping to the balls of his feet, so the impacts are muted, and he draws the curtains closed in hurried jerks, proceeds into his room to do the same, then heads to the doorway again, letting himself out. Already, just between his apartment and the corridor, there's a notable drop in temperature. He tugs at the fronts of his jacket as he trots to the stairway, pulling both sides together and zipping it up all the way to his neck, grateful of the high collar. He wants to be in the foyer, waiting and able to grab the taxi as soon as it pulls up, on the off chance someone else tries to steal it from under his nose. He wouldn't put it past anyone.

His steps are light on the stairs, and he keeps his hands in his pockets for warmth, descending swiftly, practically jogging. He rounds each corner smoothly, feeling the breeze from outside increase each time the entryway is opened, carrying the warmer air of the building upwards. The longer hair of his fringe is lifted and dropped, pattering against his forehead. Light from the foyer emanates upwards, yellow and false, cheerily so, and as Graham completes the final flight, alighting on cheaply varnished flooring, he shivers, tense and unsure.

The walls are bare, painted glossy, but Graham feels more comfortable here than he does at Dave's building. He hugs the left wall, slowing his progress, shoulder brushing it, then leans against the cool surface, one foot kicked back, so the sole of his shoe rests flat against the wall, friction holding it in place. From this vantage he can see the courtyard, bleak and open, the skeletal shrubbery either side trembling in the gale. Overlaid in the glass of the doors is the reverse of the space he stands in, and like a sketch it's faint, merely a suggestion. The halogen strips mar his view partially, stretching away at an angle.

Few people are venturing out, unsurprisingly. Rain is pounding on the glass, and one of the doors rocks back and forth on its hinges slightly, seal making a squelching noise when it moves particularly far, then returns to rest. Graham's nudges his knee side to side in agitation, jolting whenever a set of lights go by, and after a few false starts, he tuts at himself, leaning his head against the wall and rolling it to the side, observing the dark with his neck held somewhat uncomfortably. Finally, a car rolls to a stop, and after pausing for a brief moment to check their intention - whether they'll pull away again, and Graham would be out in that weather for no good reason - he sprints to the door, throwing it open and hissing through his teeth as the onslaught meets him.

His glasses do little to shield his eyes from the pouring rain, and he ducks his head, squinting shoulders drawn high, defensive, running with his hands in his pockets to try to keep them warm and dry. He's drenched quickly, fronts of his jeans patched dark with moisture, but he keeps running, pulling open the back door to the cab and practically vaulting inside. He's shuddering from the cold already, and he jostles his hair, waterlogged strands pull stickily away from his skin.

He realises where he is, sodden and caught intolerably between misery and anticipation, and looks up to meet the taxi driver's stare in the rear-view mirror, abashed and embarrassed. He gives his name, and the driver relaxes a little, and they set off smoothly, Graham having recited the address, burned as it is in his memory. The seats are battered, leather cracking, and the air conditioning's been turned up to prevent the windows from misting up, so he curls in on himself, cold sinking into his bones. This is like yesterday, but worse. He can't move, can't do anything to heat himself up. He's certainly going to make a lasting impression on Damon, and not a good one. He's bedraggled and wracked with shivers, dressed so inappropriately that it's actually funny, if darkly so; Graham might've laughed, if it weren't for his company. 

As it is, the other man seems to pick up that Graham isn't in the mood to chat - hunched in his seat, arms crossed over his front, and fingers buried under his arms - so he keeps the radio turned up. Graham cleans his glasses, then watches the lights and cars and buildings and people racing past him, kaleidoscopic in the backdrop of pitch-black, wincing each time the car's buffeted, envisaging aquaplaning and head-on collisions. He grits his teeth, angry at his irrationality: his outfit, his mindset - all of it's conspiring to make him feel ragged and vastly more idiotic than usual. He's not stupid - knows this - and it makes him feel worse. This is why he never acts like that: desiring and covetous. It's not in his character, fits his skin wrong, makes him self-conscious, and then he goes and makes a fool of himself like this. Graham chews on his nails, feeling shaky and insecure, leaning back hard into the seat, as though its support is the one he needs.

As they approach the centre, the roads begin to clog, home-bound workers dashing to their cars, or to taxis, desperate for a warm, dry journey. Graham feels clammy from the rain, and without the forward movement to take his mind off it, he becomes acutely aware of how uncomfortable he feels. Really, this whole thing is pointless. He should just ask the taxi driver to turn around and spare him the embarrassment. And he wants to - at least, a part of him does - and he can envisage it, see the conversation unfold, but his body won't engage, won't go on autopilot for him, so he sits stewing in the backseat, flexing his jaw and getting no further. Eventually, he just sits back, prepared speech burning at his tongue, mouth clamped shut.

He can feel occasional, querying glances from the driver, probably the result of his closed-off demeanour. Graham ignores it, training his vision lethargically on the outside, condensation from the moisture steeped into his clothes fogging his view just slightly. Time blurs into an indistinct sprawl, following the arrhythmic crawl of the cab, journey drawn-out, and languishing. The roads are slick, and reflections are distorted within puddles gathered at kerbsides, rippling in the wind and rain. Graham's almost surprised when they seem to reach the other side of the worst of the traffic, and from then on their path is uninterrupted. It's worse. He jogs his leg up and down, exhaling through pursed lips. He could really do with a cigarette - anything for a paltry bit of heat, and to busy himself, his hands, his mind - but of course, in his haste, he forgot them. 

The high-rises thin out, then disappear entirely, now only shadows through the rear windscreen, lit from within in fits and bursts, by people still working in their offices, or those lucky enough to be in their homes. They're moving into a more suburban area, terraces lining roads, cars squeezed onto pavements. The rain's steady, falling in distended arcs as the wind's funnelled by the housing. Street-lights are haloed by their own sodium-yellow coronae. The car begins to slow, driver feeling out the addresses to find the correct one, and it's too soon - even though he's late - his eyes widening and a surge of adrenaline spreading through his gut. He tries his best to neaten his hair, put it into some semblance of a style, but it's too damp to hold shape, and with the weather, he'll end up just as windswept. The other man looks insistently into the rear-view mirror until Graham finally looks away from the door handle to meets his. "Wait here, please?" His voice is shaky, and his tongue feels fumbling as he searches for the right words. "I'll only be a minute."

Graham doesn't wait for his acquiescence, instead shouldering the door open, bodily, the wind catching it and almost forcing it closed on his leg. He's struck by the deluge, struggles to squeeze between the door and the frame of the car, and when he pushes the door shut, the wind tears it from his cold fingers, slamming it. He shoots the taxi driver a vastly apologetic look, hands raised placatingly, before rounding the car and sprinting to the house he's been dreading seeing, up the brief, flagged path, past a rectangular strip of grass, slightly overgrown, as is typical during winter. There's a step up to the door, and Graham hops up onto it, reaching without a second thought to ring the doorbell, clutching at his upper arms with his hands, grateful of the small bit of shelter offered by a small overhang, though with the driving wind, he's still affected.

The taxi driver must be getting impatient, and Graham turns to look back, smiling awkwardly in the general direction of the front seat, hopping up and down on his toes, muscles in his sides and abdomen trembling with cold. Fuck, he'll be ill after this. He can't even bring himself to care that much, focus very much on the present. He hears a key in the lock, and turns in time to see a surprisingly wide smile on Damon's face drop away to concern as he takes in his form. "Oh my god." He says it lowly enough that it's barely audible over the downpour. He's dressed in jeans and a dark wool jumper, looking slinking and soft, a walking dichotomy.

Graham smiles weakly in response, raising his right hand away from his arm in a small greeting as he jumps from foot to foot. "Sorry I'm late, but don't worry, I'll be gone in a jiffy." Faux-chirpy, even as he shakes. He's already lost the chance of making a good last impression. Damon makes no move to hand him clothes, and Graham riles a little, if mostly because he'll still be charged for this. "Look, mate. Just hand me the clothes, so I can get back in the taxi, and leave." The 'forever' goes unspoken, perhaps melodramatic, but the romantic in Graham feels it, intensely so, and the finality of his tone, brought on by discomfort and self-consciousness, conveys it anyway. Damon frowns darkly, looking vaguely insulted.

"I'm not a fucking heartless bastard, Graham." He steps back, opening the door wider, and warm light floods out. "Come inside and warm up, for god's sake."

Graham blanches, about to wheel around on the spot, but Damon steps towards him, affixing a hand firmly around his arm, tugging him into the doorway. "I'll pay for the taxi." He stalks out, breaking into a loping run round to the driver's window, ducking and talking, pulling his wallet from his back pocket, as Graham looks on, bemused. It feels like he's a bystander in his own life, drifting along, of little consequence to the bigger picture. He's stood listlessly with his arms dangling, realises he must be dripping on the carpet, but he doesn't know what to do, doesn't feel like he's permitted to do anything much whilst stood here, nervous and vulnerable. He's annoyed that Damon's acting chivalrous, but with the journey he's had, he feels a little less like he's somehow taking advantage.

Damon wraps up his transaction, handing across some notes, before stuffing his wallet back into his pocket, racing back around the cab, whilst holding a hand up in farewell. Graham feels like meeting a celebrity probably made it go more smoothly than it would've, had Graham tried to accomplish the same. And now he's equally as drenched as Graham. Damon steps in, head lowered until he closes the door after himself, so when he turns around and lifts his head to look at Graham, he seems disappointed at the fact that Graham hasn't made a move to be more comfortable.

The hallway's filled with the sound of measured, only slightly taxed breathing, Damon readjusting to heat and stillness. His jumper's soaked through at the shoulders, patchily on his chest where he hunched as he ran. Graham only then notices his feet - socks, he was only wearing socks - and that they're now sodden. He jolts, lifting his gaze to meet Damon's, and for a second they just stare, until the absurdity of the situation grows on them, and they both burst out into laughter. It's the first real levity Graham's felt in a long time, and his heart feels a little lighter for it. He's struck by the glint off a singular, small loop of metal piercing the lobe of Damon's left ear, a string of beads around his neck, and a chunky silver chain around his left wrist. The jewellery's a fit of femininity which should clash, but somehow works, intriguing and taunting all in one. Graham's never seen them before, and he guesses one can't wear jewellery playing football, but he wants so dearly to know the story behind them.

Before he can do anything foolish, Damon gestures at him, palm supine, finger slightly spread. "Honestly, get out of that jacket, and put on your top." He reaches down for a plastic bag, hiding unassumingly beside a small, unobtrusive, sideboard. "I'll get you a towel." Damon bustles past him, leaving the bag with him before he has a chance to respond, flicking the light on for the upstairs landing, and vaulting up the stairs two at a time, while Graham hovers, mouth parted slightly. He watches Damon's progress, then shakes himself, unzipping the jacket, feeling sorry for the material, and himself, as he peels himself from it. He holds it away from himself gingerly, dripping water lightly percussive on the firm carpet, taking the chance to observe his surroundings before the other man returns.

It's not the kind of luxury pad Graham was expecting, instead being a perfectly pleasant house, with somewhat upmarket furnishings: the sort of understated look only the affluent can afford. It's tasteful, surprisingly so, neutral palette, a sort of minimalism and lightness that he can trace back to the pub where they first met. Interesting. His ear begins to tune into the sounds around him; there's the rise and fall of dialogue, but it sounds far more like radio than television, muffled behind a white door at the end of the hallway which runs parallel to the first part of the stairs. He kneels to unlace his shoes one-handed, loosening them and pulling his feet out. Thankfully his socks have remained quite dry.

There's a flurry of footsteps, and Damon reappears, practically hurling himself down the stairs, at dangerous speed in damp socks. Graham grins, straightening up, a little embarrassed, feeling out of place, but he accepts the bath-towel as it's offered to him, removing his glasses, rubbing briefly around his scalp, face, and neck, to dry himself off. Upon replacing his glasses, he meets Damon's eye again, Damon who gestures for him to follow whilst briefly walking backwards with his hands in his back pockets, looking almost self-conscious and bashful, before turning so he's side-on, sidestepping and indicating a door under the stairs. "There's a toilet here, so you can change your top, or something." He trails off, seemingly at a loss for words, scuffing at the back of his head with his nails, before moving away, eyes wide. "Er yeah, I'll just change too." He takes the jacket from Graham, carefully, before settling it on the coat rack on the wall beside them remorsefully.

He backs away, moving towards the bannister again, pointing at the ceiling above his head. "I'll be back down in a minute." Still moving, Damon bounds back up them, still calling down to him. "Please, feel free to have a look around when you're done." Graham pauses for a moment, bewildered. Everything's happening so fast; he's barely a player in these events, decisions being made around him. He would've - should've - objected at every point during this, every time his own autonomy was ignored, but he's so cold, and genuinely, just being in another person's presence is making him feel so much better. Maybe the gloom of the last day and a half was the product of his unceasing pessimism. Graham shakes his head at himself, and enters the bathroom.

Again, tasteful, fittings silver, understated, walls manilla. It's the kind of palette his grandmother would've described as 'characterless'. He snorts to himself, working his fingers between his skin and the hem of the top where the material is damp, stuck to his skin, loosening it, then reaching for the back of the neck, pulling it up and over his head. The sleeves peel back over his upper arms, but there's little resistance as he tugs his wrists free. Just through being in the house, he's been warming up, but his clammy flesh being revealed to the air still prompts shivers and goosebumps. He removes the tee from the bag, noting, unsurprised, the lack of other top - he knew it'd be unsalvageable - and after quickly drying himself, swapping it with the soaked long-sleeved mess. He's not sure what he'll do with his jeans: probably just end up suffering through it.

He catches himself in the mirror, hair haphazard, looking tired, but even in this bizarre situation, relieved. In here, the sounds from the room next to this can more accurately be identified. It sounds like a Radio 4 programme: the cadences of the voices individual, not crossing over one another. He lifts the bag, and drapes the towel over the crook of his arm, cautiously exiting the little room. He knows Damon's still up there, and that he has permission to look around, but he feels like it's untoward. Still, curiosity gets the better of him, alongside the uncertainty of events. He thinks getting to grips with Damon as a person will level the playing field a little.

He opts for the door on the wall across from him, not the one that immediately caught his attention with muffled speech. This door, unlike the other, is ajar, so he pushes it just barely with the tips of his fingers, and it drifts open easily, whispering over the carpeting. A living room. It's got a large cathode ray screen, a two-seater sofa and a single-seater of a matching, pale fabric. There's a coffee table in the middle, a hi-fi set up pushed against the wall at the back of the room. The window's a charming bay-view thing, sealed off by curtains. On the wall's a shelf, stacked with books, records, and jewel cases for CDs. This catches his attention, and, as though magnetised, he floats absent-mindedly across the room, eyes darting along spines.

The vinyls receive the majority of his focus, and he's surprised to see a hefty amount of world music, alongside classics. There's little real crossover between their musical taste, bar some basics, like The Beatles. Graham laughs seeing 'Dare' - eighties pop: sure, it's flashy, it fits, but it's oddly playful amongst the rest of this stuff - then hums in interest to himself seeing a Radiohead album amongst the Compact Discs. 'The Bends'. It's decent, and the guitar's something he admires, all choppy and aggressive when necessary, and effects laden. It's how he'd like to play, had he his own. The day'll come soon.

He hears footsteps on the stairs, then a polite cough behind him, and he jumps, tries to subdue the reaction, play it off naturally. When he turns, he's a little shocked to realised there's an upright piano, pressed tight against the wall that had been behind him, that he managed to walk straight past. Hidden depths, indeed. Unless it's just for show. He meets Damon's eyes, squirming a little. He's hungry and not entirely comfortable, given the close perusal he seems to be under, even when the other man's gaze holds level with his. Damon takes in his still-damp jeans, but seems unwilling to say anything further on the matter, probably thinking it'll be a push too far for Graham's boundaries. And he would be right. Graham ruffles the hair at the back of his head, nervous, injecting laughter into his voice for the benefit of the man lingering in the doorway. "So, I guess I'll be off, now, then?" He wants Damon to move aside, tell him that that's the right thing to do, absolutely, and to have a nice life. He wants Damon to walk up to him, silently, and press them close. He wants Damon to ask him to stay. God, he looks good in what he's wearing, low-waisted jeans and a too-tight tee. His gut still churns seeing the bruise.

Damon squints, slightly, tilts his head. His eyes jump just to the side and behind Graham's head, to the clock on the wall Graham knows is there, then refocuses them. "Have you eaten yet?" He sounds oddly grave.

Graham deliberates lying, but the question sounded half-knowing anyway; Damon knows where he lives, how long the journey takes in ideal conditions, and they were far from ideal this evening. "No."

"Look..." He sighs, raising the tips of his fingers to his temple, staring at the floor for a beat, before dropping his palm so it slaps against his thigh, exhaling at length. "I haven't either, I can do us both something, something quick and warm." He looks imploring.

Graham wants to say yes immediately, but he doesn't even fucking know him. "I can't let you cook for me." He bites it out, standing a little taller, awkward, pulling his elbows towards his waist unconsciously, bag bumping against the side of his leg.

Damon looks wounded, frowning. He shrugs, expansively, making a frustrated sound in the back of his throat, making Graham shift on his feet to dispel the guilty little trickle of lust he feels. "I just want to repay you for looking after me the other night. You did more than you had to - you could've just left me."

There's genuine emotion in his voice, and it makes Graham reconsider. He'd want to make sure he properly reimbursed anyone that he might've put out after a disastrous night out, most definitely. He steps forward, sluggish, then takes a few more, until they're not just talking across a room, with the edges of furniture slightly blocking the route between them, now only a few feet apart. Damon looks wary, and Graham's heart cracks a little. He tries to think what he's want the other person to do in this situation, if their roles were reversed: acquiescence. So Graham nods. "Okay then."

Damon scans him, seeming suspicious, scrutiny sharp, but purses his lips, juts his chin up a little, and pats Graham on the shoulder, before moving away from the door frame, pointing towards the doormat. "You can leave your stuff there."

The hallway's filled with the sound of the radio as Damon heads into what must be the kitchen, eloquent conversation flooding outwards. The plastic bag rustles as he sets it down, and he can feel a little of a draught under the door. He hurries to pass into the kitchen, arriving just in time for Damon to have changed channels, speech cutting into a mesh of lyrics and guitar, volume then being lowered to little more than a background hum. It's more white walls and white fittings with silver handles. There's a double door leading out to a flagged patio, but beyond that he can't see much, merely reflections of the lights playing out in reverse.

Damon's already puttering about by the hob, a stainless steel pan filled with water being heated, the electric ring building to a cherry-red glow. He immediately plays host in much the Graham did, ushering him to a chair at the little dining table, setting down place mats and cutlery on the table, as the water begins to heat. "Drink?" He gestures to a small, partially filled wine-rack.

Interest piqued, Graham indicates the affirmative, following Damon's progress to a drawer to pull out a corkscrew, working it in, then pulling it free. It's a red, suggestive of the meal to come, but Graham pays more attention to the play of muscle in his arm, below the skin, lines of definition in relief with the warm lighting. Damon fills and proffers a glass to him eagerly, seeming intent on his reaction. He takes it measuredly, lifting it slightly so it's lit throughout, the colour jewel-like, and when he swills it, the hue shifts. It smells of vanilla and something fruity beneath, and though it's strong on his palette, it's one of the nicest wines he's tasted. He says as much, and Damon grins, before sashaying back to cook.

Graham watches him from behind, curious to observe, though feeling a little voyeuristic. It's strange to see him in the context of domesticity, but fits oddly well. Damon seems happy, content, and a little like he's trying to impress, exaggerating how natural he feels, which just makes Graham smile into his glass, somewhat smug. He adds some olive oil to the water, and some salt, and waits for it to come to the boil, dicing some onions, and settling a frying pan on a larger ring. To that, once it's heated he adds a dash more oil, and when that's spitting, the onions go in, which he stirs with a wooden spoon. He goes to the fridge, and removes a tube of garlic purée, squeezing in an unmeasured amount, and resumes stirring. It strikes Graham that Damon must cook more often than he would've expected; certainly more than he does.

Graham has an inkling he's going to be eating bolognese, and is quite pleased with himself when Damon lifts a pack of mince from the fridge, some dried pasta from a cupboard, and a carton of passata. It's relaxing, sitting back and hearing the sizzle as the meat's added, almost lulling him with the warmth of the situation, and the room, and the smell in the air as the purée's added is incredible. Graham's mouth's watering, and he takes a sip of wine to temporarily quench his hunger, following Damon's progress with burning eyes, biting his lip when he reaches up on tip-toes for plates, a sliver of paler skin between his tee and his jeans being revealed. He can even see the waistband of his boxers, luridly coloured as they are, and Graham blinks heavily, turning away to stare down the darkness outside.

As promised, it's quick to cook, in the scheme of homemade meals. Damon brings over twin plates with a flourish, setting down Graham's first, before following with his own. Graham leans into the steam rising from his plate, inhaling with his eyes close, before snapping them open. "Oh god, it smells so good." He's already reaching for his cutlery before Damon's properly sat down, utterly ravenous. He spikes two pieces of penne, having to roll them around his mouth to avoid burning his tongue, and doesn't swallow too soon, worried that he'd scorch his oesophagus. The tip of his tongue smarts a little, and he takes a generous sip of wine, a weak attempt to take the heat out. He looks up, see's Damon's being far more careful, leisurely, eyes alight with mirth at his actions.

Graham frowns at him, faux-annoyed, and Damon only smiles wider, before gathering his next mouthful on his fork, leaning closer to it to blow on it, ducking slightly, wetting his lips with a dart of his tongue, and Graham can't bring himself to look away, even when he's caught by Damon, eyes darting between his lips and eyes. Graham feels his cheeks heat, and he coughs, breaking their eye contact, looking down to his glass and taking a sip. He clears his throat, going back to the food on his plate, trying to pull together a semblance of composure. He pushes his fork into a couple of pieces, using his knife to hold them in place. "So, you play the piano?" Graham raises his fork to his lips, pausing before he takes it between his lips, smiling a little at Damon's obvious diversion of attention.

"Hmm, yeah. I've always played. Just classic stuff, mind you." He sounds like he's trying to play it down, sound nonchalant. "Anyway, what about you - you play guitar, right?"

Graham blushes a little - the attention having been so deftly shifted onto him was not what he was banking on, doesn't even know if Damon's aware he's done it. "Uh, yeah. I just started picking it up when I was younger." He wants to know more about Damon, wants their dynamic to equalise. "You listen to a lot of stuff, loads of genres."

Damon nods, shifting in his chair, so he's sitting on his leg. Though still eating, he hums in agreement, but only speaks when he swallows. "Yeah, my parents always listened to that sort of thing when I was younger, so I just kept going with it, I suppose. And then I found more types of music that I liked by myself."

"Like 'Dare'?" Graham smirks, watching Damon squirm at his teasing tone.

"Shut up! It's a decent album." His smile slowly grows, as Graham laughs, genuinely, head thrown back. He's enjoying this, he realises, enjoys the undercurrent of flirtation, here, where they're safe to indulge.

"I also saw you've got that Radiohead album on CD. One of my friends looks a little bit like one of the guitarists..." He pauses for a moment, thinking, clicking his fingers, as though it'll prompt him. "Uh, Jonny Greenwood?"

"Oh, really?" Damon looks interested, perking up from his seemingly ubiquitous slouch. Honestly, how a sportsman can have such poor posture, Graham will never know.

"Yeah, has the hair and the cheekbones too. He plays bass, mind you."

"Oh, a John Taylor wannabe?" Damon sticks his tongue out.

"Alex is good. No, Alex is very good." He's a little bit affronted on Alex's behalf.

Damon holds his hands up, placating, suddenly half-serious. "A John Talyor wannabe, then." At Graham's raised eyebrow, he sighs, deigns to elaborate, as though it's - jokingly - beneath him. "Hey, his basslines are sone of the best in pop, you can't deny it. So it's a compliment for your friend. Alex..." Graham squirms a little at how Damon seems to roll the name across his tongue, like he's savouring how it sounds. He's suddenly worried that somehow, he'll meet Alex, and grow bored of Graham. And fuck, that's not what the point of this meal was; this is just a thank you, a courtesy - not a promise. "Was he with you, the other evening?"

Graham swallows thickly, placing down his knife and fork, reaching for his wine like it's air, eyes surely betraying him. "Yes." It creeps from between his lips, small, insecure. He clears his throat, looking at the bottom of his glass as he tips his head back, watching the rich colour drain as he swallows.

He can feel Damon's eyes on him, calculating, but Graham refuses to acknowledge him, watching as he lowers the glass to the table, and picks up his cutlery again. "... Not my type." Graham blinks, taken-aback. But he says nothing, doesn't want to signal how easily he was read.

They continue eating, a little more sombrely. Damon provides conversation, and it's pleasant, easily so, but the whole time, Graham's thinking about how this is it. His life's normal after this. He should be pleased about that, but instead, he's raw. He'd be lying to himself if he didn't admit that Damon's broken through his defences, ingratiated himself with shocking ease - but then, for someone whose daily chore it is to deal with the press, and schmooze their way through interviews, it's not surprising. Their meal winds down, and soon, Graham knows he needs to leave.

He says as much, and though something like disappointment flickers through Damon's clear eyes, he doesn't deny it, just leaves for the hallway briefly to call a taxi. There seems to be something hovering on his lips as he leads Graham to the door. Even as Graham pulls his boots on, he says nothing, seeming troubled. It takes Graham leaning down to pick up the plastic bag, then going to take his leather jacket from the coat rack, to make Damon muster up the courage to stop him, briefly. "Wait, Graham, hear me out a second."

With a wash of nerves, Graham does, turning on the spot, sole of his boots hushing on the carpet. Damon looks conflicted, voice measured. "Look, I know this will probably come off wildly inappropriate, or something, but please..." He bustles towards him, hovering, looking a little pained, reaching for his own coat, a long, waterproof affair, perfect for winter, especially in comparison to Graham's. He thrusts it into Graham's arms, before practically springing backwards as he recoils, abject fear in his eyes. "You can say no, but I'd just really, really like to talk with you again, sometime."

Graham looks down at the heavy bunch of material in his arms, then back at Damon. He's tempted, so much so. And what can it hurt? This has been one of the nicest evenings he's had in a long while. Almost breathlessly, he holds still, aware that at any time, the taxi could arrive. He looks at Damon, really looks at him, takes in how he's stood, nervous and as scared as Graham's ever seen him. The bruise makes his gut wobbly, sad. He feels pity, not just for Damon, but for himself. He wants to, so bad. He will. He drops everything bar the coat to the floor, pulling it on in a rush, feeling a thrill burst through him. Damon stares, then laughs, relief clear. "Okay, that's... that's really good." Graham grins back at him.

"When should I bring it back?" Damon winces at that, scuffs a hand through the back of his hair.

"Uhh, I'm out of the country for the next two days: got an away game." He looks sheepish, and Graham deflates slightly, disappointed, and not wanting Damon to see it, feel bad about it, even as a twinge goes through him. "You called me yesterday when I was in the middle of packing." He pauses consideringly. "Can I come round, when I'm back?"

It takes a bit of effort to tamp down on the burst of happiness that shoots through him. "Sure, definitely. Call me, though, just in case?" He's excited, breaths catching slightly, bites his lip unconsciously, stomach fluttering as Damon grins, the expression growing across his lips slowly.

"Yes, I will."

"Fantastic!" Graham scoops his stuff up from the floor, eyes going wide as he sees the lights of his taxi as it pulls up, though the frosted pane set in the front door. "Looks like that's me."

Damon jumps to attention, hurrying to the door, pulling it open, rain-cooled wind rushing in, ruffling both their hair where it's dried in tufts. "Yes." It's soft, barely audible. Graham meets his eyes as he's about to pass over the threshold, their smiles mirrored, as Graham pulls up his hood. "Goodbye."

"Yes, I'll see you soon, then." He pulls his hood up, then darts out, into the rain, towards the taxi.


	8. Law 8: The Start and Restart of Play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was arduous to write. And it contains two of my least excellent things: exposition, and dialogue. Great!
> 
> Remember how I said I should have plenty of time to write, because of the summer? I'm so sorry, I knew I'd be wrong about that. Anyway, in two days I find out whether I get to uni or not, and then the day after that I'll be away for four days and without wifi of the chance to write, so... no progress. Sorry.
> 
> Hope this isn't too bad a chapter, it's just things need to be put in motion, hence what it is.
> 
> Unbetaed, and probably mistake-riddled (sorry).

It's obvious the storm's in the process of dying down, rain still evident, but its pattern against the window more regular than the previous day, being thrown around less by a paling wind. Graham noses into the crook of his arm, duvet drawn up around his neck, body curling in on itself. It's a dull day once more, so his room's a dark stretch around him, objects easier viewed through his periphery than head-on. He's still got time, but there are some lessons today he can't miss. He shifts, raising his head and relaxing again, pressing the side of his face into the pillow, exhaling at length, his forearm and bicep warmed a little, before cooling as he breathes in, eyes shutting lightly, trying single-mindedly to get a little more rest before his eventual get-up.

He slides the arches of his feet together restlessly, in a small, repetitive motion, wanting to force his mind to lull, give him a little more time to rest, before he reluctantly accepts he'll get no more: he's eager to get up, get ready. This is something he's missed.

Yawning widely, tears gathering at the action, he pushes himself up sideways, hands depressing the mattress, air rushing under the covers where they lift, a smooth chill up his back. His head, previously okay when he was lay down, pounds at the temples, and Graham winces, raising the heel of his right hand to press at his skull, leaning on the other, waiting for the sensation to abate. He hisses under his breath, weakly moving to stand, aware immediately that he needs to drink some water, and after that, tea: get some caffeine in him, quell the headache. He grabs his glasses, fumbling for them in the dark, trying to avoid leaving fingerprints on them, so more batting at the edge of the table with the flat of his palm, before heading to the bathroom with quick steps. He grabs a box of paracetamol, and heads to the kitchen, pouring himself a glass, depressing two tablets from the packaging and holding them on his tongue before taking a hasty draught, glad of the clean feel of it. He's hungry, but not too much so, so he finishes the rest of the glass in a couple more rough swallows, inhaling deeply through his nose when he's done, replacing the glass with a clunk.

He picks up the box again, carries it back with him, strips off with languid motions, glad he turned the heating up yesterday. He showers, takes his time. It's calming on his skin.

He dresses sensibly, feeling a rush of embarrassment at the mental image of himself seen bedraggled on a doorstep. No wonder Damon took pity on him, fucking hell. But he does feel a little warmth in his cheeks, a nervy blush, and when he comes back to himself from reverie, he realises he's smiling to himself, a small one, bashful: he enjoyed yesterday, perhaps too much. And, he supposes, Damon's company was surprisingly good. More human and grounded than he'd expected. He'll have to thank Dave for the encouragement in some way - there's no doubt that without it, Graham would easily have let the opportunity slip through his fingers like silk: soothing, surprisingly heavy.

Graham putters about making himself tea, some cereal: same as yesterday. Bland, but he makes himself eat it this time. The state of the cupboards is dire, in urgent need of replenishment. He's been putting it off way too long, to the point it's foolish. And if Damon's coming round, well, he needs something in to cook. He's stricken at the thought of being a disappointing host, having something plain and simple. He needs to repay Damon: he made him a home-cooked meal made on the spot! That beats a cup of tea and painkillers any day. Graham can't match that, he needs something with flair, even if it's mostly shop bought. He can spare some cash for that, surely?

Alex, he needs Alex for this. He pushes the chair back, extracting himself from between it and the table, gritting his teeth at how his knee caught between the legs until he more fully shifts his weight from the seat, bounding over to the phone. The handset balances in the crook of his neck with the ease of familiarity, though it's not exactly comfortable, lifting the base and punching the number in with both thumbs. He places it back down carefully as he hears the dial tone, hoping that Alex hasn't had a late night, and transfers the handset back to his right hand. His lips are apart, partially rehearsed fragments of how he's going to start the conversation clamouring and overlapping distractingly. But Alex is quick, catching him out before he's got a solid phrase.

"Hello?" He exhales, and Graham knows his speech is mingled with cigarette smoke.

"Alex?" He pauses, feels Alex's amusement on the other end - of course it's him. "I need some help." He's so eager that his tongue trips, stammering slightly, kicking himself for the fact that of course - of course - Alex will misconstrue this.

"Graham, what's the matter? Are you okay? Do you need me to come over?" He can tell that Alex's typically louche body language has been dropped in favour of automatic poise, standing tall. It's in the terseness of his tone, the fact that he hasn't taken another pull of the cigarette.

"Yes!" He realiss it could come across panicked-sounding, not helping his case. "Yes, I'm fine, it's nothing serious." He pauses, blinking. "You know food, don't you? You know the good brands for things. I'm clueless about this, as you know, but I-"

"Wait, you want me to give you advice on what to buy to cook something... for someone?" There's a grin tainting his speech, and Graham knows he's relaxing into an artful slouch, cigarette being brought to his lips once more.

Graham splutters for a second. Alex is wily and intelligent: he's interested in the cosmos, the inexorable, seemingly irreversible stretch of time. Of course he knows why Graham's asking this. In fact, his motives should be perfectly transparent to anyone. "Uh, yeah... you don't mind, do you?"

There's a second of glowing silence, where Alex is so obviously smiling. "Not at all. I'm pleased you asked me, in fact. I can go one better: come shopping with me. We can work out what you'll make, eh?"

Wow. That's definitely far better - he was expecting just to have to memorise things and throw something together when he was there. "That's... really great actually. Thank's Alex!" His voice is bright, chirpy, very different to the last while. This is why he likes being around Alex. He's perpetually more optimistic and more of a miserable bastard than Graham, both at the same time. A terrible cynic, with big dreams. They've been best of friends since they saw each other. And, just once, more. A mistake they rectified in good time.

"Honestly, Graham, it's not a problem for me. You should know that by now." Teasing. Alex has always been the biggest flirt in the room.

Graham rolls his eyes, faux-irritation staining his voice, all the while, he knows his grin is evident. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Okay, catch me after my class is over, alright?"

"You're still going to those? What time?"

"Oh, piss off." Graham wipes his hand down over his face, eyes shut, beaming. "I'll meet you outside the building around three-thirty, that do?"

"Hmm, sure, sure. See you then." Alex places the phone down first, and Graham hovers for a second, hearing the sine tone of the disconnected line, sighs, deflating a little. Sometimes he feels like he shouldn't interact with Alex like that, not after what happened. If he knows what he's helping to shop for, surely he'll feel taken for granted? Fuck, it's not the time for this.

Graham places the phone back in the cradle, plods over to finish his breakfast. He's got time to work through the tedium of it slowly, and after that, he tidies up. He's never not tidying up. It seems like the only thing lending his life any god damn structure, sometimes, since his college future he envisaged for years has dwindled, as he feels increasingly disillusioned at it all. It's all more serious than he thought. He feels like a fraud even being there. He has nothing that he wants with any certainty, cannot comprehend believing in anything strongly enough to be driven to the extent he sees. It's like faith, of any kind. Unbelievable, to him. He sometimes wonders if it's all a charade, and people only have it because they see others around them with it. That'd be galling one day, wouldn't it. To find out that you been lying to yourself and others, because people around you had been doing the very same their whole lives. Whole families, generations.

God, scratch that about Alex being more miserable.

Graham shakes his head at himself, cussing as he lifts his sketchpad from where he left it on the sofa, noting as he stretches the absence of any ache. Much better. He rolls his neck as he walks, circles his arms at the shoulders. Much better. He might not even have realised it was gone. He gathers the rest of his stuff, pressing it all tightly packed into a small satchel, lifting it by the wide strap over the flat of his palm level with his shoulder, elbow held by his side, as he leaves his room, heading to grab his boots. He sits down to pull them on, laces them tightly, leaving red indentations in the creases of his fingers.

Standing, he notes his coats with a drop of his stomach. He doesn't have his default leather one here, traces his fingertips lightly on the sleeve of Damon's, before frowning, tutting, and skipping over to the jacket he'd usually wear in the rain, the one he should have the day before. This coat's actually waterproof, and warm, with a hood, and everything. He's a bloody fool. He lifts this one, shrugging it on easily. It's shorter than Damon's, which dropped past his hips, near the tops of his legs: this one stops at his hips. It feels right to wear. So why does he feel discomfort under his skin? A little bit of queasiness? Is it because he'll be lying to one of his closest friends later? Probably.

He grabs the strap of his bag, rises smoothly to his feet, draws his bag up swiftly and ducks under the strap in a seamless movement, hurrying out of the the apartment, hoping at by keeping himself moving, he'll distract himself.

\---

The class is long, laborious, seconds crawling by. He tries to refrain from looking at the clock, ticking away balefully on the wall, and in doing so, falls deep into imagined circumstances, alternate progressions of events from yesterday, poring over detail exhaustively. He's first flustered, then irked, each time he pulls himself back to reality. He has to keep himself split between this more enjoyable pursuit, and and what's going on around him. The smiles threatening at his lips leave him self-conscious and terrified he'll be caught by someone, pulse racing when he dares do look around him and finds a gaze directed at him.

When it's over, he sighs, and it's washed away by the flurries of movement and packing up all around him. He's made woefully little progress, and it seems as though he's been given up as a lost cause. But he leaves with a bit of a spring in his step: he rarely gets time to spend with just Alex outside of patently absurd environments. He misses him.

His steps are bordering on jogging, swift, air in the corridor stirred by other students' passages kicking up a breeze, which only intensifies as he gets close to the half-open set of double doors. The rain outside is dragging air down, chilling it, so Graham shudders, moving to the wall so he can drop his bag and put his coat on properly, zipping it up high, hood drawn up. He hugs his bag close to his chest - it's not fully waterproof, and its material already got a bit waterlogged during his earlier journey, so he'd rather spare it, if possible.

The sky's grey outside, rush of rain still clear through his hood. Puddles are collecting on flagged pathways where the slabs are slightly concave on their surfaces, ripped into broiling textures by the rain. There are a couple of trees further down the walkway, closer to the road, and they have a collection of people stood underneath, waiting on the buses which frequent the route, and seem far less inclined to show up on particularly miserable days. Thankfully, the campus is positioned close to shops, a little further into the city centre, without being subsumed in traffic.

Alex is an obvious presence under the boughs of one of them, dressed in muted colours, figure all long-lined, long-limbed. Graham hunches against the wind, shivering as it gets under his coat, up his back, as he strides. He's already been spotted, and as he draws nearer, Alex closes the distance, pressing a friendly hand between Graham's shoulders, ushering him along as they break into a gambolling run, laughing, their heads ducked, Alex leading him with unfaltering surety to a car park around the corner, and they both fling themselves inside as soon as Alex has the doors unlocked.

For a second or two, they just breathe, rain percussive on the roof, running down the windows in wide streams. They pull their hoods down, unzip their coats slightly. Alex turns the engine on, smile dulling into a wince as it struggles at first to turn over, before it thrums fully to life. They both sigh in relief, pulling on their seat-belts, meeting each other's gazes and laughing. "So, where were you hoping to go?" Alex's voice is slightly bland in inflection as he scans around the vicinity of the car, before creeping out of the space carefully.

Graham hums to himself, thinking. "I hadn't really decided..." He glances out of the window, at pedestrians clad in heavy coats and bowed against the elements, struggling to their destinations. "I suppose just anywhere that sells some decent quality food."

"Splashing out on food - that's not like you." He's quite aware he won't be free of teasing from Alex today. "So who's this you're trying to impress?"

Graham huffs, kicking out his legs straighter into the footwell and slouching in his seat, crossing his arms. "I'm not... It's not to impress anyone." Why can't he get comfortable? He shifts his shoulders, and the belt cuts into the side of his neck. "It's just to say thank you."

He can feel Alex's raised eyebrow, but he says nothing further, moving onto some less objectionable territory: easy chatter, gossip, music. It's welcome as they crawl through the roads, traffic horrendous with the weather. Most people aren't wanting to walk, unsurprisingly.

The click of Alex's indicator as they turn into the car park is welcome. Graham's beginning to feel an itch to walk, stretch his legs. Alex's mind's working over his words - he can feel it. He's smart, though he often plays it down, and with his ruthless streak, it makes him all the more dangerous. Graham's glad they fit so well together. He wouldn't like to get on his wrong side.

Alex cruises easily into a spot, parks, turns to Graham. "Right then."

Graham nods in response, pulling up his hood and zipping his coat up again, hears Alex do the same. Thankfully they're near enough to the supermarket that they only need to jog for a little while. It's more upmarket than Graham's usual fare, but it's what he asked for. He's already having second thoughts.

\---

"This should be okay, right?" He gestures to the half-filled trolley. Alex flicks his eyes between Graham's, and the contents.

"I suppose so, it's just..." Alex shifts on his feet, then steps closer, conspiratorial, bowing his neck to negate the two inch difference between them. Graham feels his hackles go up, discomfort kicking his wariness up a few notches. They're stood too close, in too public a place. Alex doesn't seem to have noticed, and his voice is hushed low. "I don't think they'll mind you buying more in your price range, Graham. I think they'd rather you cooked something for them and weren't at risk of putting yourself out." His eyes are wide. Graham smiles tightly, nodding, redistributing his weight with a wider stance, so their torsos are further apart, flicking his eyes around for witnesses. "I mean, you're saving up for two things, and your income is unreliable..."

Alex is right, irritatingly so. Besides, buying expensive isn't going to be impressive to Damon - it's what he's used to, surely. And - god - that's not even what this is for. He grits his teeth, inhales, exhales. Nods. "You're right, you're right." He wilfully loosens his fingers around the trolley's handle.

Alex draws back, smiling, not quite fully - it looks flat around his eyes. Graham relaxes as his space is vacated, rubbing at the skin under his eyes, glasses bumping on his knuckles. He needs to clean them, rain having left marks behind.

They walk a bit further. Graham's still feeling unsure about whether he should go through with the purchases, or ask Alex to whisk them to his usual place. He'd feel bad for the wasted petrol, but he knows he'd be immediately told that he shouldn't worry. After a while, he notes a burgeoning silence from Alex, whose intent perusal of the shelves is decidedly out of character. "What?"

He can see Alex turn to look at him in his periphery, eyes hard, searching him. Graham knows what it'll be about, just not how it'll be posed.

"You smile, you know." Graham can't help the laughter that bubbles from his lips, surprised, thrown off-balance by the approach.

"Yes, I do smile Alex." He ducks to pick up some mile from the fridge, checking the date. "Many do."

Alex clicks his tongue in an overly theatrical manner. "No. I mean when you talk about them, even cooking for them..."

Graham can feel himself tense up, back rigid, shivering at the cold down the aisle. He tries to suppress it, scanning blankly over the bottle for lack of anything to do. Compare the price. Got it. He reaches for a different bottle, holds them in front of him, as though weighing it up, as he thinks over Alex's words. Careful.

"Yes..." He injects as much dispassion as he can, tailors it more towards willing - but disagreeing - consideration. "As I would about any engagement I have with a friend." He hopes the coolness doesn't come across defensive, though it surely will.

"Graham, come on - I know you, this isn't like that." He feels Alex step closer behind. "You must like them. A lot." Graham wants to turn around and snap at him. Instead, he turns around to smile at Alex, as warningly as he can manage.

"Maybe I do, but they certainly don't. Not like that. This is purely gratitude at unexpected, unnecessary, generosity. I will not allow you to insinuate anything more underhand on my behalf." He holds Alex's gaze as brazenly as he can manage, the urge to apologise snapping at his heels. "I'm not like you, in that regard." He looks away and continues pushing the trolley forwards to avoid seeing the hurt in Alex's eyes. He reminds Graham of a dog, a big, happy dog, one that loves company, can't understand Graham's reticence, and inhibitions. And fuck, that makes him feel worse.

He continues his route through the shop, Alex drifting in his wake. He feels shame at his outburst, knows it's purely down to his own demons, his insecurity, his perpetual discomfort in his own skin, his fear of what the people around him think. Alex could very well have walked out of the shop, left him behind, ungrateful as he has been - clearly. But he's stayed. Alex always has been too good to him.

Eventually, after more aimless wandering, Alex draws level with him. "Sorry, I shouldn't be pushing you to talk about something you obviously made clear you didn't want to." And now Alex is blaming himself. Great.

"Alex, seriously, it's fine. I've just been a bit stressed the past few days. I shouldn't've taken it out on you." He shoots back a smile, thin-lipped, sure that Alex will see through it.

Alex hums in response, seeming unconvinced, gaze absent.

\---

Alex pulls up to the road outside Graham's apartment block. The rain's died away during the lengthy drive, from a continual downpour, to more patchy, clouds still foreboding and dark with rain and the premature fall of night during December. The headlights illuminate cones of precipitation, and the courtyard's abandoned, even at five. "You need help with your stuff?"

Graham blanches, realises he really hasn't thought this through. He looks sheepishly at Alex. "If you wouldn't mind..."

Thankfully, he hasn't bought too much, so it's only one trip, but his fingers are sore by the end of it, flimsy plastic of the bags' handles moulding narrow, leaving red imprints. He and Alex are bedraggled, tired. He eyes Alex as he lifts his satchel over his head, takes his coat off, goes to hang it up. And then panic spreads through him upon seeing Damon's. It won't be hidden by his own, long as it is, but he can keep Alex from noticing. He hangs his own over it, willing Alex to be oblivious - far more oblivious than normal - and not notice the bulkiness and unusual hang of the fabric, and the mismatching, previously unseen material beneath.

He feels guilty turning to face Alex, in a way he knows is equal parts irrational, and also very much understandable. He's being watched with dark, unreadable eyes. He's not sure what he's thinking, and it's unnerving. Alex is skilled at telegraphing his feelings, but even better at hiding them when he wants. He unlaces his boots, remaining hunched as he pulls them off, so as to avoid scrutiny. When he does stand, Alex has turned away, is scanning Graham's mostly empty calendar. "Would you like a cup of tea?" It's the least Graham can do, given he's forfeited his whole afternoon, and dealt with his bullshit. He doesn't expect Alex's sigh.

"Graham, I'm not stupid." He flinches, even as Alex looks on with sad mirth, shining in his eyes, smile, once again, not reaching his eyes. "You had his number, you said you've been stressed the last few days so I imagine you've arranged to meet up with him at some point, and there's a new coat on the coat rack." At Graham's look of shock, and humiliation, Alex shrugs, lips twisted down, breaks his gaze.

"You don't know it's Damon's, it could be anyone's-"

Alex pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes shut tight, gesturing openly with his free hand. "I've seen him wearing it on TV. And you've called him by his first name - something you've never done before." Alex opens his eyes, looks morosely at Graham, whose teeth practically clicked together as he shut his mouth at his words. Graham swallows, the action unusually difficult. "Why didn't you just tell me?"

Graham splutters. "It's been three, four days since I've met him - it's not like I'm going steady with him!" He isn't obliged to tell Alex anything about this. Alex's presumptiveness is galling, killing any contrition he was feeling. "I don't have to tell you anything. It's private!"

He looks angry, but it fades into contemplation of Graham's words. And then, apology. He nods, a succinct motion. He moves towards the door, steps stilted, like he's thinking something over. Before he opens the door he turns back to him, looking embarrassed. "Dave was wondering if you wanted to come over tomorrow, watch the match, but I guess..." He trails off, implication that Alex has pissed him off too far hanging heavily in the room. It's not necessarily true, and Alex wants to hear that: Graham won't offer it.

"I have work tomorrow. Tell Dave I'm sorry I'm missing it."

Alex nods. Cool air drifts over Graham as Alex opens the door, making him shiver. Graham only realises how tense he is when the door clicks closed.

\---

He's setting up his guitar and microphone when the manager of the pub walks over. Peterson. Graham likes the guy: he's mild-mannered, though his build would make you believe the opposite. He ambles with confidence, owns his height. Graham sometimes wishes he could pull of that same swagger, but he sometimes feels awkward with his bulk, slender as he is. People are sometimes surprised when he stands up after they've been talking to him, when he straightens out his back, his shoulders; he's seen it in their eyes, how they reassess him.

He smiles at him, beckons him from behind the metal stand, and Graham carefully sets his instrument down, before hopping off his stool. "Hi."

"Hello Graham - look, I've got something to ask you." Graham feels a rush of nervousness. He's not being fired is he? The man must see it in his face, raises his open palm soothingly. "It's nothing bad - in fact, I think you'll find it agreeable. We're so impressed at your work ethic, and your reliability. You've been here the last six months, even during the summer when you could've dumped us to spend time doing your own thing." He talks with his hands. Graham follows their motions as he's lead towards the bar. "So, we've got a proposition for you: we cut down your hours, but give you a solid schedule, and you'll be a named player. Wages increased too. In total, you'll be earning more than you do now." He flicks his steely eyes over Graham, attempting to read his answer from the set of his shoulders, and his eyes.

Surprise is what he feels most - he hadn't thought he'd been doing anything particularly impressive.

"Graham... You're talented. Haven't you thought about pursuing music?"

He shakes his head, unblinking, staring at the lacquered wood of the bar, the dark tone of the wood beneath. He makes his decision in a rush. "Can I have it in writing?" He blushes, suddenly wonders if he's overstepped his mark. He just doesn't want to be taken advantage of - not that he thinks he will be, it's just you can never be too careful.

He's surprised by the laugh he receives. "Of course. It'll be finalised sometime next week. Is that okay?"

He breathes for a beat or two, as happy surprise rolls through him, a genuine smile crossing his features. "Yeah. Yeah, that's perfect."

"Good, I'm glad about that." Peterson smiles, turns away to pour Graham a drink, which he accepts gladly, taking a sip, foam collecting on his upper lip that he licks away as he wends his way back to his perch. It's only a half-pint, all the better to walk home in the wind and rain with. "Graham?" He turns back to face the bar, stopping with the glass held carefully between two hands, close to his sternum. "Have the day off tomorrow - there's a match on: big one. It'll probably be mostly fans in here watching. Have a Saturday to yourself."

He nods once, turning away. A day off. Maybe he will take Dave up on that offer. What's the harm it could do? He won't be second-guessing what he says and how he acts around Alex when it's on, at least, now he knows. It could be interesting.

He'll have to thank Dave, at any rate.


End file.
